Library  of  Che  t:heolo<jtcal  Aetmnarp 

PRINCETON  •  NEW  JERSEY 

0vw  //a 
V7/  \\V 

FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
REVEREND  JESSE  HALSEY,  D.D. 


■nAn/fcb.  'Jt'dt 


^ /fSLS 


t 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


https://archive.org/details/devilotherparablOOrhin 


"THE  'TV  L" 


AND 

OTHER  PARABLES 


Truths  for  the  Times 

by  V 

Arthur  B.  Rhinow 


EDEN  PUBLISHING  HOUSE 


ST.  LOUIS,  MO. 


CHICAGO,  ILL. 


Copyright  1923 
Eden  Publishing  House 
St.  Louis,  Mo. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Foreword  .  5 

The  Devil .  9 

Opium  Religion .  14 

The  Minister  of  the  Church  in  the  Other 

Block .  20 

During  the  Brooklyn  Car  Strike .  24 

The  Minister's  Malady .  28 

The  Joy  of  Service .  38 

The  Ring .  41 

Tradition  . * .  43 

“Even  as  a  Hen” .  48 

From  the  Diary  of  a  Modern  Minister .  54' 

The  Practical  Thing .  61 

Brother  Martin .  63 

Making  Time .  67 

Elijah  .  70 

(Contents  continued  on  next  page) 


CONTENTS 

(Continued) 

PAGE 

The  Drummer’s  Disappointment .  75 

When  He  Omitted  Shadrach’s  Oration .  80 

The  Cure .  84 

Going  Home .  89 

A  Youthful  Fancy . .  .  . .  91 

He  Felt  the  Stars  Looking  at  Him .  93 

Cheap  . 105 

More  Time  for  Herself . Ill 

The  Wise  One . 115 

The  Pale  Faith . 117 

The  Boasters . 121 

The  Church . 124 

The  Spiritual  Man . 126 

The  Smile . 128 

Mr.  Alberg’s  Worry . 132 

Covering  Ground . 137 


FOREWORD 

From  the  very  beginning  of  literature,  the 
parable  or  fable  has  been  a  favorite  vehicle  for 
conveying  moral  or  religious  truth,  because  its 
direct  appeal  to  human  interest  gave  special  force 
to  the  indirect  suggestion  which  it  carried.  Some 
of  the  most  sublime  truths  of  the  Bible  are  clothed 
in  this  form  of  speech.  No  other  means  could 
have  been  so  effective  when  it  became  necessary 
to  reprove  David  for  his  great  sin  in  the  matter 
of  Uriah  the  Hittite,  nor  could  any  didactic  state¬ 
ment  about  God's  willingness  to  receive  penitent 
sinners  have  had  an  effect  at  all  equal  to  that  pro¬ 
duced  by  that  immortal  piece  of  literature,  the 
parable  of  the  prodigal  son. 

It  is  a  matter  of  satisfaction,  therefore,  that 
the  parable  is  coming  into  its  own  once  more  as 
a  means  of  teaching  moral  and  religious  truth  to 
the  present  generation,  which  is  so  desperately 
in  need  of  religious  teaching  and  at  the  same  time 
so  discouragingly  hard  to  interest  in  religious 
thinking.  No  writer  has  shown  greater  skill  in 
this  direction  during  the  past  few  years  than 
Arthur  B.  Rhinow,  pastor  of  Ridgewood  Presby¬ 
terian  Church,  Brooklyn,  New  York,  whose  beauty 
and  simplicity  of  style,  combined  with  unusual 
breadth  of  sympathy  and  depth  of  spiritual  in- 


sight,  has  again  and  again  charmed  the  readers 
of  religious  papers  in  various  parts  of  the  coun¬ 
try.  The  present  volume  is  a  collection  of  some 
of  the  best  products  of  his  pen,  including  many 
which  have  not  yet  appeared  in  print,  while  those 
which  have  already  been  published  deserve  a 
thoughtful  rereading.  The  parables  cover  a  wide 
range  of  human  life  and  experience  and  deal  with 
a  great  variety  of  subjects  which  are  of  perennial 
interest  to  thoughtful  people. 

The  courtesy  of  those  periodicals  which  kind¬ 
ly  and  readily  gave  permission  to  reprint  the  par¬ 
ables  which  have  appeared  in  their  respective 
columns  ( Christian  Century :  The  Smile;  The 
Church;  The  Wise  One;  A  Youthful  Fancy;  Bro¬ 
ther  Martin;  Tradition;  Opium  Religion. — The 
Continent:  When  He  Omitted  Shadrach’s  Ora¬ 
tion;  The  Practical  Thing;  From  the  Diary  of  a 
Modern  Minister.  —  Christian  Endeavor  World: 
Making  Time;  During  the  Brooklyn  Car  Strike; 
Elijah;  Covering  Ground.  —  The  Outlook:  The 
Devil. — Evangelical  Herald:  Mr.  Alberg’s  Worry; 
The  Spiritual  Man ;  The  Boasters ;  The  Pale  Faith ; 
He  Felt  the  Stars  Looking  at  Him ;  More  Time  for 
Herself ;  Cheap  ;  The  Drummer’s  Disappointment ; 
Going  Home;  The  Joy  of  Service;  The  Minister’s 
Malady)  is  hereby  gratefully  acknowledged. 


St.  Louis,  Mo.,  May  21,  1923. 


J.  H.  H. 


THE  DEVIL 


RI  Ben  Ahithophel  came  down  from  Jeru¬ 
salem  to  see  the  Prophet.  He  wondered 
why  he  had  retired  to  the  solitude  when 
the  people  were  asking  for  him.  He 
found  him  sitting  on  a  stone.  A  group 
of  men  were  about  him,  men  with  hunger  in  their 
eyes. 

The  scenery  was  one  of  contrasts.  Rugged 
hills  framing  fields  of  flowers ;  in  the  distance  the 
Jordan  rushing  southward.  And  the  Prophet 
seemed  to  blend  with  it  all.  But  Uri  Ben  Ahith¬ 
ophel  saw  none  of  that. 

“I  have  come  to  see  you  about  your  work,” 
he  began. 

The  Prophet  looked  up. 

“I  think  your  work  looks  very  promising. 
You  have  made  a  good  start.  Now  what  you  need 
is  somebody  to  manage  your  campaign.  I  have 

[9] 


10 


THE  DEVIL 


had  a  good  deal  of  experience  in  affairs  like  that, 
and  I  should  like  to — ” 

A  snake  wriggled  through  the  grass  and  dis¬ 
appeared  in  the  jumble  of  rocks. 

“Now  what  you  need,  first  of  all,”  Uri  con¬ 
tinued  after  he  had  recovered,  “is  to  gain  the 
favor  of  influential  people.  As  I  said  before,  you 
have  begun  well.  People  are  talking  about  you, 
and  you  know  if  you  can  get  people  to  talk  about 
you  you  have  gained  a  great  deal.  They  even  say 
you  have  performed  miracles.  Now  there  is  no 
reason  why  you  shouldn’t  make  a  big  success  of 
your  enterprise.  And  I  say,  the  first  thing  to  do 
is  to  get  the  backing  of  influential  people. 

“Now  there  is  Annas,  the  high  priest,  for  in¬ 
stance.  Believe  me,  he  is  the  most  powerful  man 
in  Israel.  If  you  could  get  him  to  indorse  you, 
that  would  help  immensely.  And  of  course  some 
prominent  Pharisee,  also.  Annas,  you  know,  is 
a  Sadducee,  and  you  cannot  afford  to  take  sides. 
With  two  such  leaders  backing  you,  you  could  not 
fail.  And  I  believe  my  connections  would  enable 
me  to  enlist  that  support.  One  only  has  to  know 
how  to  approach  men  like  that  in  the  right  way; 
and  I  have  had  experience.  All  I  would  ask  you 
to  do  is  not  to  say  or  do  anything  to  offend  them. 
That  would  never  do.  You  understand  that,  of 
course.  All  the  rest  you  can  leave  to  me.  And 


THE  DEVIL 


11 


all  I  ask  of  you  for  myself  is  a  promise  to  remem¬ 
ber  me  when  you  enter  into  your  kingdom,  so  to 
speak.  That’s  all. 

“And  believe  me,  without  such  men  as  Annas 
your  enterprise  will  never  amount  to  very  much. 
Get  the  right  people  interested  first.” 

The  Prophet  studied  the  lilies  lovingly. 

“And  after  you  have  had  the  indorsement  of 
those  men,”  13 ri  went  on,  “then  you  ought  to  be 
careful  about  the  disciples  you  choose.  Get  men 
that  are  representative,  men  of  the  better  classes, 
men  that  impress  the  people.  Then  you  will  be 
able  to  control  means,  and  you  know  you  cannot 
do  anything  without  money.  For  instance,  I  am 
just  now  thinking  of  a  certain  rich  young  ruler. 
Fine  fellow,  and  he  has  great  possessions.” 

“The  Prophet  has  chosen  his  disciples,”  one 
of  the  men  answered.  There  was  a  deep  glow  in 
his  eyes,  and  he  held  a  bag. 

“What  kind  of  men  are  they?”  the  inter¬ 
viewer  asked  quickly. 

“Oh,  Galilean  fishermen,  a  publican,  and 
other  men  of  that  kind.” 

Uri  Ben  Ahithophel  shook  his  head. 

“Fishermen  and  publicans?  That  will  never 
do.  Why  did  he  choose  them?” 


“Because  they  believe  in  him.” 


12 


THE  DEVIL 


“Well,  that’s  all  right  so  far  as  it  goes.  But 
this  is  a  practical  age,  and  we  must  be  practical 
to  succeed.  Look  at  the  way  the  Romans  do 
things,  and  our  own  politicians.  They’re  shrewd. 
And  even  a  religious  movement  must  be  con¬ 
ducted  in  the  right  way.  Imagine  how  Annas 
would  launch  a  campaign  like  that.  And  it  is 
very  important  to  get  the  right  kind  of  people 
to  push  things.  You  look  as  though  you  might 
be  a  help  to  him,  but  those  other  men  are  just 
muscle  and  dreams.” 

Uri  Ben  Ahithophel  again  turned  to  the 
Prophet.  He  saw  him  take  a  reed  and  write  on 
the  ground. 

“There  is  something  else  I  want  to  talk  to 
you  about,”  Uri  continued.  “I  have  heard  people 
say  that  you  were  of  Nazareth.  Now  I  wouldn’t 
advertise  that  too  much.  You  know  the  people 
say,  'Can  any  good  thing  come  out  of  Nazareth?’ 
And  we  must  avoid  anything  that  might  offend 
the  people.  ‘Give  the  people  what  they  want,’  is 
the  way  to  succeed. 

“Now,  tell  me,”  Uri  went  on,  “is  there  not 
some  other  place  with  which  you  are  associated 
by  ties  of  something  or  other?” 

“He  was  born  in  Bethlehem,”  he  with  the  bag 
volunteered. 

Uri  Ben  Ahithophel  leaped  up. 


THE  DEVIL 


13 


“In  Bethlehem?”  he  cried,  “The  very  place! 
The  birthplace  of  a  king.” 

“He  is  of  the  seed  of  David.” 

“He  is?  Come,  come,  this  is  great.  We  shall 
begin  the  big  demonstration  at  Bethlehem.  Leave 
that  to  me.  We  shall  advertise  you  as  the  son  of 
David.  That  alone  will  give  you  popular  applause. 
We  shall  speak  of  the  glorious  reign  of  David  and 
Solomon,  and  that  a  scion  of  that  illustrious  house 
has  come  to  them  to  lead  them  to — ” 

The  Prophet’s  look  silenced  Uri  Ben  Ahitho- 
phel.  He  remained  quiet  for  a  long  time.  At 
first  he  had  an  unearthly  feeling,  then  his  mind 
reverted  to  the  kingdoms  of  this  world  and  the 
glory  of  them.  He  turned  to  the  man  with  the 
glowing  eyes. 

“Your  master  might  win  the  whole  country,” 
he  said,  “if  he  listened  to  reason ;  but — ” 

He  shook  his  head  sadly,  and  left. 


OPIUM  RELIGION 


E  necessarily  treat  the  news  coming  from 
Russia  with  reserve.  If  all  the  reports 
coming  from  that  land  of  gloom  and  mys¬ 
tery  were  true,  Mr.  Lenine  has  more  lives 
than  a  cat.  But  there  is  no  reason  why 
we  should  not  comment  on  the  news.  Sermons 
have  been  preached  on  texts  whose  authenticity 
is  questioned  by  the  critics. 

We  are  told  that  placards  have  been  displayed 
in  Russia,  telling  the  people  that  religion  is  the 
opium  of  the  mind.  Therefore  discard  religion. 

This  has  shocked  many,  and  it  certainly  is  a 
striking  expression.  The  propaganda  department 
of  the  Soviet  seems  to  be  efficient.  What  would 
it  not  do  in  case  of  war?  We  pity  the  enemy  as 
we  stop  to  think  of  it.  For  example,  a  slogan  like 
“Kill  the  Calf,”  meaning  the  golden  calf,  a  gentle 
innuendo  against  plutocracy;  to  which  the  other 


OPIUM  RELIGION 


15 


side  might  reply  with  “Bare  the  Beast/’  offering 
an  opportunity  for  acrid  punning.  Then,  indeed, 
would  the  leaders  regret  having  disparaged  re¬ 
ligion.  For  a  certain  kind  of  religion  has  always 
been  a  factor  in  mesmerizing  the  masses  into  can¬ 
non-fodder  bravery.  Think  of  what  they  might 
draw  on  in  the  Apocalypse  in  preparing  for  world 
conquest. 

All  this  I  pondered  as  I  leaned  back  in  the  old 
Morris  chair,  and  my  eyes  began  to  blink.  There 
were  shadows  on  the  wall,  and  presently  I  be¬ 
came  aware  that  my  old  friend,  the  Guide  in 
many  reveries,  was  with  me.  We  know  each  other 
too  well  to  indulge  in  effusive  greeting. 

“Surely  that  is  a  false  statement,”  I  asserted 
inquiringly. 

He  knew  I  referred  to  the  statement  that  re¬ 
ligion  is  the  opium  of  the  mind.  He  seems  to  un¬ 
derstand  me  so  much  more  readily  than  others. 
He  smiled. 

“Come  with  me,”  he  said,  “and  I’ll  answer 
you.” 

In  a  moment  I  was  in  a  study.  A  slender 
young  clergyman  sat  in  a  chair,  and  looked  up 
eagerly  at  his  brother  minister,  who  was  turning 
the  leaves  of  a  book  aimlessly. 

“That  is  one  of  my  textbooks,”  the  young  man 


16 


OPIUM  RELIGION 


volunteered.  “I  matriculated  today,  and  the 
course  begins  on  Monday.  We  shall  take  up  the 
modern  trend  of  philosophy.” 

The  other  man  frowned. 

“What  do  you  want  to  take  up  such  studies 
for?”  he  asked,  with  towering  authority.  “You 
have  the  whole  truth  in  the  Bible.  Don't  bother 
about  anything  alse.” 

The  Guide  looked  at  me,  and  I  began  to  un¬ 
derstand. 

“That's  opium  religion,”  he  said.  “He  has 
lost  the  open  mind,  and  with  it  the  open  soul.  His 
assurance  is  narcotic.  Who  knows  only  the  Bible, 
does  not  know  it.  The  Bible  touches  all  of  life, 
and  all  of  life  touches  the  Bible.” 

Suddenly  the  scene  was  changed.  The  in¬ 
terior  of  a  magnificent  church.  Arches  and  domes 
and  beautiful  windows.  Candles  and  incense. 
Now  the  people  bow  the  head  and  repeat  the 
Lord's  Prayer.  After  the  Amen,  one  almost  hears 
a  pious  sigh  sweep  over  the  entire  congregation, 
and  yet  nobody  has  given  thought  to  the  petition 
of  the  prayer. 

The  Guide  turned  and  our  eyes  met.  I  un¬ 
derstood.  That  was  opium. 

He  took  me  into  a  large  room.  Many  articles 
were  there.  Fetishes,  totems,  idols,  amulets.  And 


OPIUM  RELIGION 


17 


all  along  the  sides  were  shelves  and  shelves  of 
books,  most  of  them  looking  like  editions  de  luxe, 
and  all  of  them  covered  with  dust. 

“What  are  they?”  I  inquired. 

“Those  are  Bibles  that  are  never  opened,”  he 
informed  me.  “Their  owners  believe  they  are  re¬ 
ligious  and  under  the  care  of  Providence  because 
they  have  a  Bible  in  the  house.” 

I  nodded.  I  understood. 

Next  I  was  taken  to  a  little  garret  room, 
poorly  furnished.  Before  a  book  sat  a  man  who 
was  reading  like  one  famished.  As  he  looked  up, 
I  saw  that  his  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  his  eyes 
were  aglow  with  bigotry.  Presently  a  little 
woman  entered  the  room.  She  looked  spent.  He 
raised  his  head,  and  I  interpreted  the  expression 
on  his  face  as  a  mixture  of  resentment  at  having 
been  disturbed  and  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his 
wife. 

“Ah,  if  you  knew  what  beautiful  thoughts 
are  in  this  book,”  he  said  ecstatically.  “They  are 
heavenly.” 

“Beautiful  thoughts!”  she  inveighed,  as  in 
desperation.  “Why  don’t  your  beautiful  thoughts 
make  you  do  something?  Your  religion  just 
makes  you  drunk.  And  I  must  make  a  living  for 
you.” 


18 


OPIUM  RELIGION 


Then  the  Guide  took  me  to  a  portrait  gallery. 
It  was  peculiar  in  that  every  portrait  looked  like 
a  picture  of  Siamese  twins.  One  face  was  proudly 
poised  on  fine  shoulders,  every  line  indicating  con¬ 
fidence  and  initiative;  while  the  other  face,  of 
the  same  man,  was  expressive  of  servile  yielding 
and  imitation. 

I  asked  for  an  explanation. 

“These  are  men  who  are  successful  in  their 
professions.  There  they  think  for  themselves. 
They  have  individual  opinions  on  matters  of  poli¬ 
tics  and  sport  and  business ;  but  on  matters  of  re¬ 
ligion  they  do  not  think  for  themselves.  In  that 
realm  their  pet  mottoes  are:  ‘My  father  and 
my  grandfather  were  Methodists,  and  that's  why 
I'm  one.'  ‘The  church  says  so;  that  settles  it.' 
‘The  priest  says  so;  I  accept.'  ‘This  passage  of 
Scripture  is  enough  for  me.'  " 

It  was  an  interesting  gallery;  but  we  could 
not  stay. 

Next  I  beheld  a  man  leaning  languidly  against 
a  tree  on  a  very  high  precipice.  Before  him  in 
the  valley  lay  the  city.  On  one  side  of  the  stream 
were  mansions ;  on  the  other  hovels.  There  was 
hauteur  and  hatred  and  crime.  In  the  far  distance 
a  battle  was  being  fought. 

But  the  man  saw  none  of  these.  His  mind 
was  fixed  on  a  vision  of  peace  and  bliss  he  saw 


OPIUM  RELIGION 


19 


in  the  sky ;  and  he  muttered  to  himself,  “This  alone 
is  real.” 

We  seemed  to  travel  through  the  air.  Then  I 
saw  millions  and  millions  of  people.  They  looked 
like  sheep  having  no  shepherd.  They  could 
neither  read  nor  write.  On  their  faces  I  saw  the 
expression  of  stupid  piety.  Priests  and  monks 
moved  among  them.  They  were  dressed  in  long 
robes,  and  some  of  the  people  tried  to  kiss  the 
hems  of  their  garments. 

“This  is  called  the  God-fearing  people,”  the 
Guide  remarked. 

“Why,  this  is  Russia,”  I  exclaimed. 

And  I  awoke. 


THE  MINISTER  OF  THE  CHURCH 
IN  THE  OTHER  BLOCK 


ATHER: — “Now,  my  boy,  I  want  to  give 
you  a  bit  of  advice.  Mother  has  gone  to 
the  fruit  store,  and  we  are  alone.  So  we 
can  speak  as  man  to  man.” 

(The  boy  settles  down  in  his  chair, 
arranges  the  creases  of  his  trousers,  rests  the 
ankle  of  his  right  leg  on  the  knee  of  his  left  leg, 
caresses  his  silk  sock,  almost  the  identical  shade 
of  his  tie,  and  with  constrained  patience  prepares 
to  listen  to  one  of  father’s  outbursts  of  intimate 
oratory.  Father  is  wonderfully  fluent  in  the 
bosom  of  his  family,  where  he  usually  occupies 
the  “chair”  and  the  “floor”  at  the  same  time, 
though  he  is  extremely  different  outside  of  his 
home.) 

Son “All  right.” 

Father  (giving  tone-quality  to  his  voice)  : — 

[20] 


THE  MINISTER  OF  THE  CHURCH  21 


“You  are  now  at  the  age  when  a  youth  ought  to 
think  of  choosing  his  profession.  Now,  I  am  not 
going  to  tell  you  what  profession  to  choose,  but  I 
want  to  impress  upon  you  to  be  courteous  to  a 
certain  profession.  I  mean  the  ministry.  Do  you 
understand  ?” 

(The  son  looks  mystified,  but  his  nod  indi¬ 
cates  that  he  vaguely  understands.) 

“Now,  the  other  day  1  saw  you  bumping 
into  the  minister  of  the  church  in  the  next  block. 
You  know  where  I  mean.  And  you  were  so  busy 
with  the  strings  of  your  tennis  racket  that  you 
hardly  looked  up,  and  I  believe  you  failed  to  ex¬ 
cuse  yourself.” 

Son: — “I  said,  ‘Excuse  me.’” 

Father: — “Well,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  But 
don’t  interrupt  me.  I  guess  your  father  has  a 
right  to  speak  to  you.” 

Son : — “Oh,  certainly.”  (He  changes  his  posi¬ 
tion  and  begins  to  caress  the  other  sock.) 

Father: — “I  have  always  held  that  ministers 
must  be  treated  with  respect.  Now,  you  can  do 
a  great  deal  to  help  that  cause  along,  William. 
You  are  a  brilliant  boy.  Of  course,  those  last  re¬ 
ports  you  brought  home  from  high  school  were 
not  exactly, — well,  you  know  what  I  mean ;  but  I 
believe  it’s  just  as  you  said.  The  teacher  dislikes 


22  THE  MINISTER  OF  THE  CHURCH 


you.  I  would  rather  believe  my  child  than  any 
teacher.  Now,  as  I  said,  you  have  a  brilliant 
future.” 

(The  boy  has  caught  sight  of  the  sporting 
page  of  the  Sunday  newspaper,  spread  out  on  the 
table.  The  father  believes  his  son’s  face  is  averted 
to  give  better  attention.) 

Father  (continues,  tenderly)  : — “You  may 
be  president  of  a  railroad  some  day,  William.  In 
that  case,  see  to  it  that  ministers  get  half  fare. 
Or  you  may  become  the  head  of  a  large  mercan¬ 
tile  establishment.  Then  be  sure  to  let  the  minis¬ 
ters  have  the  customary  discount.  If  you  become 
a  professional  man — a  doctor,  a  dentist,  or  a  law¬ 
yer — don’t  charge  the  minister  for  your  services. 
I  heard  an  undertaker  say  only  the  other  day, 
speaking  of  a  certain  minister,  that  he  would  be 
glad  to  bury  him  free  of  charge.  Or  if  you  be¬ 
come  a  gentleman  farmer — the  future  is  veiled, 
you  know — always  supply  the  village  parsonage 
with  plenty  of  vegetables. 

“You  see,  the  minister  is  in  a  class  of  his  own. 
Without  churches  we  would  soon  drop  to  lower 
levels,  and  the  minister  is  the  leader.  We  ought 
to  encourage  him  in  every  way.  Now,  I  must 
confess  I  was  annoyed  when  I  saw  you  bump  into 
the  minister  of  the  church  in  the  next  block,  and 
I  am  glad  you  apologized.” 


THE  MINISTER  OF  THE  CHURCH  28 


Son: — “What  kind  of  a  church  is  that, 
father?” 

Father: — “That  church?”  (Takes  off  his 
glasses  and  thinks  hard.)  “Well,  I'll  be  switched. 
To  think  of  it.  A  man  as  observant  as  I  am.  Well, 
you  know  how  busy  I  am. — I  think  it's  a  Metho¬ 
dist  church,  though  it  might  be  a  United  Pres¬ 
byterian  or  an  Episcopal  church.” 

Son: — “It’s  not  Catholic.  He  doesn’t  wear 
that  kind  of  a  collar.” 

Father: — “Yes,  I  believe  you  are  right.  But 
I  really  couldn’t  tell  you  offhand  what  kind  it  is. 
Ask  mother;  she  knows.  I  don’t  get  to  church 
very  often,  you  know;  but”  (with  unctuous  em¬ 
phasis)  “I  believe  in  encouraging  the  minister.” 


DURING  THE  BROOKLYN 
CAR  STRIKE 


ES,  sir,”  said  the  iceman  to  no  one  in 
particular.  Rather  was  his  remark  de¬ 
signed  to  be  of  benefit  to  all  within  reach 
of  his  voice,  and  he  made  sure  to  give  it 
carrying-power.  He  was  always  audible. 
If  he  had  no  one  else  to  talk  to,  he  would  air  his 
sentiments  to  his  horses;  and  they  were  very 
patient. 

On  this  occasion,  however,  his  horses  were 
not  present.  They  were  in  the  stable.  He  had 
discovered  something  more  lucrative  than  ped¬ 
dling  ice.  Not  that  he  would  neglect  his  custom- 
ers,  but  they  would  have  to  wait.  If  they  com¬ 
plained,  he  would  talk  to  them. 

The  fact  was,  the  motormen  and  the  conduce 
tors  of  the  Brooklyn  Rapid  Transit  Company  were 

[24] 


DURING  THE  CAR  STRIKE 


25 


out  on  a  strike,  and  whoever  owned  an  automobile 
or  a  truck  was  engaged  in  carrying  passengers  to 
and  from  New  York,  charging  prices  that  were 
right  in  his  own  eyes.  And  the  iceman  had  taken 
his  seven-passenger  machine  from  the  garage  and 
joined  the  joyriders;  that  is,  it  was  a  joy  to  the 
owners.  And  so  he  stood  there,  near  the  curb, 
arguing,  and  occasionally  urging  passengers  to 
step  right  into  his  car. 

“Yes,  sir,”  he  repeated.  “Talking  of  profi¬ 
teering,  I  can’t  see  why  the  Government  don’t  get 
after  those  robbers.  They  are  robbers.  Look  at 
the  way  they  used  us  common  people  when  the 
war  was  on. 

“Step  right  in  lady.  We’re  going  to  start  as 
soon  as  I  have  enough  people  in  the  car.  And  that 
won’t  be  long,  you  bet. — How  much  ?  Fifty  cents 
to  the  Bridge. — What?  Too  much?  Well,  you 
don’t  have  to,  you  know ;  but  I  guess  you  do  have 
to.  Of  course  you  can  ride  in  one  of  them  trucks 
and  stand  all  the  way.  Ha,  ha!  I  guess  you’d 
better  step  right  in. — Thank  you,  lady. 

“Now,  take  the  price  of  butter  and  eggs,  for 
instance.  You  know,  they’ve  got  butter  and 
eggs  stacked  in  them  cold-storage  houses  by  the 
million,  just  to  keep  up  the  price.  Where’s  the 
Government?  That’s  what  I  say. 

“Fifty  cents,  Mister. — Too  much  ?  Well,  now, 


26 


DURING  THE  CAR  STRIKE 


you  see  I  can  get  it.  And  why  shouldn't  I,  while 
the  getting’s  good? — All  right;  I  knew  you’d 
come.  It’s  a  fine-riding  car,  too. 

“Look  at  shoes.  Of  course,  we  had  to  ship  a 
lot  of  hides  to  Europe.  That’s  so.  The  boy  over 
in  the  shoe-store  told  me  that  himself.  But  you 
can’t  tell  me  that  shoes  have  to  be  as  high  in  price 
as  they  are  today.  That’s  nothing  but  profiteer¬ 
ing.  That’s  all.  And  I  don’t  see  why  Congress 
don’t  get  after  them. 

“All  right !  Step  in,  gentlemen. — Fifty  cents. 
— What?  Why,  I  heard  of  a  man  that  had  to  pay 
two  dollars  to  go  from  Myrtle  and  Broadway  to 
Flatbush.  And  at  first  the  chauffeur  wanted 
three  dollars.  I  ought  to  charge  more.  Maybe 
I’m  a  fool.  The  people  will  pay.  They’ve  got  to 
go  to  New  York.  You  must  take  things  as  they 
come.  That’s  what  I  say. 

“Yes,  sir,  those  robbers,  those  food  barons. 
The  farmers  is  getting  more  than  their  share, 
too ;  but  I  won’t  say  much  to  that.  But  take  flour. 
Why,  I  could  tell  you  some  stories.  I  got  a  brother 
living  in  Minneapolis.  And  coal.  Do  you  know, 
I  believe  there’s  lots  of  coal?  And  they’re  hold¬ 
ing  it  back  to  screw  up  the  price.  Those  profi¬ 
teers  ought  to  be  strung  up.  Anyhow,  they  ought 
to  go  to  the  Island. 

“Just  in  time,  ladies.  Just  two  more  seats 


DURING  THE  CAR  STRIKE 


27 


left. — Fifty  cents. — That’s  what  I  said.  And  to¬ 
morrow  I’ll  charge  more. — But  you  want  to  get 
there  in  time,  don’t  you? — Well,  then,  in  you  go. 
I  tell  you  it’s  cheap  at  that. — Everybody’s  doing  it. 

“Just  think  of  it.  They’re  telling  me  that  a 
suit  of  clothes  will  be  ninety  dollars  next  winter. 
What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  Profiteers,  robbery ! 
And  where’s  the  Government? — Well,  so-long.” 

While  cranking  the  car,  he  rubbed  his  eye. 
Maybe  he  was  trying  to  remove  the  beam. 


THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 


strange  malady  had  seized  the  Rev. 
Carter  Kellogg.  His  wife  tried  to  keep 
the  knowledge  of  it  from  the  people  just 
as  long  as  she  could,  but  finally  it  had 
leaked  out.  Their  beloved  and  dignified 

pastor ! 

The  ladies’  aid  society  demanded  to  be  taken 
into  confidence,  and  Mrs.  Kellogg  told  the  story, 
moistening  every  word  with  tears,  after  which 
she  bent  her  gray  head  and  covered  her  face  with 
hands  whose  delicacy  told  of  the  starved  cravings 
of  culture. 

The  malady  had  developed  gradually,  and  at 
first  the  dear  little  queen  of  the  parsonage  and 
her  daughters,  Antoinette  and  Esther,  were  in¬ 
clined  to  treat  it  humorously.  As  it  recurred 
month  after  month,  however,  they  resented  it, 
and  finally  they  became  sadly  aware  that  father’s 
brain  was  affected  in  a  most  unusual  manner. 


[28] 


THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 


29 


The  family  physician,  Dr.  Jack  Antony 
Jackson,  was  puzzled.  He  stroked  his  beard 
meditatively  for  a  long  while,  and  yet  he  was 
puzzled.  He  had  known  Mr.  Kellogg  for  many 
years  and  never  dreamt  of  such  a  thing.  He  con¬ 
sulted  a  colleague  of  a  neighboring  town  and  at 
first  indignantly  rejected  that  gentleman’s  advice, 
but  finally  yielded. 

Dr.  Mosby  suggested  that  the  minister  be 
followed  on  his  recreation  day,  which,  as  a  rule, 
he  spent  in  the  city.  This  seemed  to  be  sinister, 
he  admitted,  but  it  was  necessary,  as  modern 
medical  diagnosis  as  well  as  the  art  of  the  detec¬ 
tive  proceeded  along  the  lines  of  elimination. 
Dr.  Jackson  acquiesced,  not  because  he  was  a  little 
man  and  his  colleague  a  large  man,  but  because 
any  theory  was  welcome.  He  was  perplexed. 

At  the  same  time  they  decided  to  call  in  the 
New  York  specialist  Dr.  Felton  Crosby,  who  was 
eminent  in  spite  of  his  boyish  face.  He  immedi¬ 
ately  inspired  the  ladies  with  confidence  by  telling 
them  the  Latin  name  of  what  he  thought  was  the 
malady. 

After  they  had  heaved  their  sigh  of  comfort, 
they  watched  the  great  doctor  with  hopeful 
scrutiny,  and  soon  suspected  him  of  having  a 
working  theory.  Which,  indeed,  he  had. 

He  was  known  for  his  duplicity  in  that  he 


30 


THE  MINISTER'S  MALADY 


would  nod  approvingly  at  a  colleague’s  diagnosis, 
but  would  at  the  same  time  follow  a  theory  of  his 
own.  He  would  excuse  himself  by  claiming  that 
his  clues  were  of  purely  intuitive  origin  and  would 
most  likely  be  scorned  by  men  who  were  accus¬ 
tomed  to  reason  slowly  and  carefully  according 
to  the  rules  of  scientific  analysis. 

While,  therefore,  tacitly  encouraging  the  sug¬ 
gestion  that  the  minister  be  followed  with  the 
view  to  finding  the  source  of  his  idiosyncrasy  in 
some  craving  for  amusement,  he  set  to  work  along 
his  own  line,  using  his  theory,  intuitively  given, 
as  a  working  hypothesis.  He  began  to  question 
people  that  were  intimately  acquainted  with  the 
pastor,  beginning  with  the  members  of  his  family. 
Before  very  long  he  was  aware  of  another  intui¬ 
tion.  He  was  fond  of  deep  things  and  he  found 
Antoinette’s  eyes  unfathomable.  He  seemed  to 
see  them  everywhere,  even  when  his  own  eyes 
followed  her  as  she  left  the  room  with  the  grace 
of  one  whom  self  mastery  and  mastery  of  others 
has  made  a  princess. 

But  what  was  the  minister’s  malady?  We 
are  reluctant  in  giving  an  account  of  it,  for  we 
are  afraid  it  will  prove  mirth-provoking,  while  it 
was  indeed  very  serious. 

Mr.  Kellogg’s  salary  was  one  hundred  dollars 
a  month,  besides  the  free  use  of  the  parsonage. 


THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 


31 


Of  this  amount  he  gave  his  wife  eighty  dollars, 
according  to  a  friendly  understanding,  while  he 
kept  twenty  dollars  for  himself.  Up  to  within  six 
months  he  had  always  cheerfully  surrendered  his 
wife’s  allowance,  always  deploring  that  his  own 
expenses  were  so  high,  economical  though  he  was. 
But  they  got  along  very  well,  as  well  as  ministers’ 
families  usually  get  along,  and  by  the  time  the 
prices  began  to  soar,  Antoinette  had  found  a  posi¬ 
tion  in  the  village  high-school,  and  Esther,  the 
vivacious  girl  who  claimed  to  be  able  to  love  the 
world  without  loving  the  flesh  and  the  devil, 
earned  a  handsome  salary  as  bookkeeper  of  the 
only  factory  in  town. 

One  day  when  mother  reminded  father  that 
he  had  not  yet  given  her  the  money,  he  looked 
defiant. 

“You’re  not  going  to  get  that  money  out  of 
me  so  easily,”  he  answered. 

The  mother  looked  amazed,  seconded  by  her 
daughters. 

“Why,  what  do  you  want  us  to  do?”  Esther 
asked.  Business  life  had  developed  a  ready 
tongue. 

“I  want  you  to  go  through  a  performance 
before  I  hand  over  the  money.” 

They  thought  it  was  a  joke,  and  immediately 


32 


THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 


began  to  contribute  to  what  they  regarded  a  fine 
bit  of  domestic  hilarity.  Antoinette  recited  the 
Dying  Gladiator,  and  Esther  executed  a  new  set 
of  calisthenics  that  came  dangerously  close  to  the 
Terpsichorean,  after  which  the  three  ladies  sang 
“The  Same  Old  Ocean  Washes  East  and  West,” 
one  of  the  popular  successes  of  the  better  kind, 

“Now  will  you  let  mother  have  the  money?” 
Antoinette  asked  her  father,  who  seemed  to  be 
pleased  with  the  performance.  He  shook  his  head 
stubbornly. 

“Where  are  the  refreshments?”  he  asked. 

They  laughed,  and  Esther  went  out  for  some 
ice  cream.  After  they  had  eaten,  father  receiving 
a  liberal  portion,  he  handed  his  wife  the  eighty 
dollars  with  a  smile. 

That  was  fun.  But  when  he  demanded  a 
similar  program  every  month,  only  ever  more  ex¬ 
acting,  the  family  became  alarmed.  Something 
was  wrong.  They  kept  the  secret  for  a  long  while, 
but  finally  it  became  like  little  Moses.  It  could 
no  longer  be  hid.  Then  they  consulted  the  phy¬ 
sician. 

The  two  physicians  had  the  minister  followed 
during  his  recreation  days  in  the  labyrinthine 
city.  A  semi-professional  who  had  recently  grad¬ 
uated  with  honors  from  a  detective  correspon- 


THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 


33 


dence  school,  had  offered  his  services,  and  he  was 
very  serious  in  his  work.  He  made  note  of  the 
fact  that  Mr.  Kellogg  walked  up  Broadway  for 
almost  an  hour,  watching  the  people  and  the  show- 
windows.  Then  he  went  into  Wanamaker’s,  ate 
a  hearty  meal,  and  stayed  for  the  afternoon  con¬ 
cert.  So  far  he  had  seen  nothing  unusual. 

The  minister  then  left  the  department  store 
and  strolled  along  one  of  the  side  streets,  evi¬ 
dently  lost  in  thought.  He  came  upon  a  church, 
still  respectable  looking,  though  it  had  evidently 
seen  better  days,  for  a  canvas  sign  announced  a 
social  and  supper  for  the  benefit  of  the  current 
expense  fund.  The  minister  stood  and  stared  as 
though  fascinated  by  the  church,  then  turned 
away  as  with  a  wrench  and  ran  as  fast  as  his 
weight  would  allow,  until  he  could  turn  the 
corner.  The  detective  had  a  hard  time  keeping  up. 

After  the  church  was  out  of  sight,  the  runner 
became  a  panting  walker.  He  mopped  his  face, 
looked  at  his  watch,  walked  to  the  station,  and 
after  a  little  wait  boarded  a  train  for  home. 

When  the  detective  made  his  report,  the  two 
physicians  looked  at  each  other  gravely,  and 
nodded  with  weighty  sagacity.  For  a  minister  to 
run  away  from  a  church — that  certainly  looked 
suspicious. 

They  told  their  findings  to  Dr.  Crosby.  That 


34 


THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 


gentleman  had  spent  a  day  in  the  village  making 
inquiries  of  members  of  the  church,  and  using  a 
good  deal  of  time  in  questioning  Antoinette,  who 
looked  embarrassed  but  not  very  much  spent  by 
the  ordeal.  It  was  surprising  how  much  infor¬ 
mation  the  nerve  specialist  got  from  Antoinette. 

"What  did  Mr.  Crosby  ask  you?”  Mrs.  Kel¬ 
logg  inquired  of  her  daughter. 

"Oh,  so  much.  He’s  a  heart  specialist,  too.” 

"Is  he?  Does  he  think  something  is  the  mat¬ 
ter  with  father’s  heart?” 

"No.” 

"No?  that’s  good.” 

After  the  two  physicians  had  made  their  re¬ 
port  to  the  specialist,  they  ventured  an  opinion. 
They  thought  the  minister  needed  watching. 

"I  think  he  needs  a  vacation,”  was  his  reply. 

"Well,  now,”  ventured  Dr.  Jackson,  "don’t 
you  think  it  is  suspicious  for  a  minister  to  run 
away  from  a  church?” 

"It  is,”  Dr.  Crosby  drawled.  "But  what  will 
you  say  when  you  see  him  run  away  from  his 
own  church?” 

Their  eyes  were  interrogative. 

"Be  patient  with  me  just  a  little  longer,”  he 
pleaded,  "I  think  I  understand  the  case.  I  am  a 


THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 


35 


minister’s  son.  And  I  am  interested  in  Dr.  Kel¬ 
logg.  He  has  such  a  lovely — family.  I  cannot  ex¬ 
plain  to  you  right  now.  Be  patient  a  little 
longer.” 

They  nodded.  They  knew  him. 

The  next  Sunday  morning,  the  early  arrivals 
for  the  church  service  were  surprised  to  find  a 
large  sign  announcing  an  oyster  supper  with 
songs,  drills,  and  other  attractions,  for  the  benefit 
of  the  church.  There  was  much  questioning  as 
to  who  had  arranged  for  such  an  evening’s  enter¬ 
tainment,  though  no  one  questioned  the  propriety 
of  it.  They  were  used  to  it. 

Automobile  after  automobile  arrived,  the 
hubub  grew  more  voluminous.  At  one  corner  of 
the  shed  Dr.  Crosby  was  talking  to  his  colleagues. 

“There  comes  the  minister,”  said  one  of  the 
young  men. 

Mr.  Kellogg  walked  slowly,  his  massive  head 
bent  in  meditation.  He  had  a  fine  face  with 
strong  features.  He  approached  the  church, 
bowing  friendly  greetings  to  his  parishioners. 
When  he  saw  the  sign  he  stared,  pressed  his  hands 
to  his  head,  turned  about,  and  ran  up  the  street 
toward  his  house. 

The  people  were  astonished,  and  the  physi¬ 
cians  nodded  approvingly  at  Dr.  Crosby. 


36 


THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 


That  specialist  mounted  the  steps  of  the 
church  and  raised  his  hand,  beckoning  silence. 

“Friends,”  he  began,  “I  have  concluded  my 
diagnosis  of  your  pastor’s  malady.  I  have  been 
greatly  helped  by  my  colleagues  and  by  the  fact 
that  I  am  a  minister’s  son. 

“I  have  learned  by  diligent  inquiry  that  you 
have  raised  much  of  the  money  to  meet  the  church 
expenses  by  entertainments  and  fairs,  and  this 
has  finally  gotten  on  your  pastor’s  nerves.  It  has 
affected  him  in  a  two-fold  manner.  On  the  one 
hand  he  is  so  disgusted  with  such  means  of  secur¬ 
ing  the  church’s  revenue  that  he  runs  away  from 
every  church  bearing  a  sign  announcing  an  en¬ 
tertainment  or  bazaar.  On  the  other  hand  a  sub¬ 
tle,  subconscious  reasoning  tells  him  that  as  he 
does  not  receive  his  money  without  entertainment, 
he  ought  not  to  give  it  without  entertainment. 

“Now,  my  dear  friends,  I  am  very  much,  I 
am  personally  interested  in  this  case.”  Very  few 
noticed  the  blush.  “And  I  want  to  help.  Your 
pastor  needs  a  vacation.  I  have  a  mountain  lodge 
in  the  Adirondacks.  There  he  will  soon  recover. 
And  I  hope  to  be  able  to  make  him  feel  at  home 
in  that  lodge  as  often  as  he  cares  to  make  use  of 
it.”  It  was  probably  the  excitement  that  again 
colored  his  face. 

“But  you  must  do  your  share.  I  have  found 


THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 


37 


out  how  much  my — your  pastor  is  to  you.  You 
must  make  him  l'eel  at  home.  Less  suppers  and 
bazaars  to  raise  his  salary.  You  must  become 
givers,  proportionate  givers,  as  the  Lord  has  pros¬ 
pered  you.  We  all  have  been  stingy  with  the 
church.  We  have  treated  it  more  shabbily  than 
our  coffee  merchant.” 

The  calm  that  followed  the  bold  speech  grew 
intense  when  the  people  saw  Dr.  Crosby  offer  his 
arm  to  Antoinette  and  both  walk  toward  the  par¬ 
sonage.  Then,  however,  the  storm  broke  loose. 
But  it  cleared  the  atmosphere  for  a  finer  day  in 
the  good  old  church  and  for  a  higher  appreciation 
of  the  beloved  minister. 


THE  JOY  OF  SERVICE 


T  was  very  quiet  in  the  church,  the  clock 
only  keeping  up  its  continual  tick-tock. 
The  pews  stood  about  like  rows  of  veteran 
soldiers,  not  saying  a  word;  the  organ 
seemed  asleep;  and  the  Bible  presided 
with  silent  dignity. 

Now,  however,  a  whispering  was  heard  in 
one  of  the  corners,  where  a  hymn-book  had  care¬ 
lessly  been  left  in  a  pew. 

“You  have  no  business  here,”  said  the  pew. 
“Why  are  you  not  with  the  stack?” 

“I  don't  know,”  answered  the  hymn-book, 
“but  I  don’t  see  that  you  have  anything  to  say 
about  it.  You  are  not  my  superior.  What  do  you 
do  to  entitle  you  to  such  mastery?” 

“What  do  I  do?  Why,  without  me  the  peo¬ 
ple  could  hardly  stand  the  service,  especially  if  it 
were  long.  I  afford  rest  to  the  worshipers.” 

“I  know,”  answered  the  hymn-book,  with  a 
superior  smile;  “you  ask  people  to  sit  down,  but 
I  give  them  something  that  makes  them  feel  like 
rising  and  fighting  a  good  fight.” 

[38] 


THE  JOY  OF  SERVICE 


39 


"You  are  putting  on  airs,”  the  pew  sneered. 

"That  well  becomes  me;  and  my  airs  have 
helped  thousands.” 

Their  quarrel  had  become  loud  enough  to 
rouse  the  organ  from  its  drowse,  and  it  had  heard 
the  last  remark  also. 

"Do  you  remember,”  the  organ  said  to  the 
hymn-book,  "the  last  time  the  people  tried  to  sing 
your  airs  without  me?  It  was  a  miserable  fail¬ 
ure.  What  would  the  church  do  without  me !” 

"But  I  am  older  than  you,”  the  hymn-book 
proudly  replied.  "People  sang  before  they  had 
you.” 

A  ray  of  sunshine,  which  had  been  listening, 
now  joined  the  speakers. 

"Talking  of  age,”  it  said  in  its  kind  way,  "1 
can  say  that  I  am  older  than  you  all.” 

"Older  than  I  ?”  asked  the  Bible. 

"Oh,  much  older,”  answered  the  ray. 

The  hymn-book  and  pew  still  glared  at  each 
other,  and  the  Bible  was  just  about  to  tell  the  ray 
of  its  ancient  days,  when  it  heard  footsteps,  and 
said,  "Hush!” 

A  group  of  children  entered  the  church.  Men 
and  women  followed.  The  organist  arrived  and 
began  to  play.  Then  the  organ  felt  happy.  "If 
only  I  can  please  him  and  the  people,  today,”  it 
said. 


40 


THE  JOY  OF  SERVICE 


A  rich  man  sat  down  in  the  quarrelsome  pew, 
and  as  he  came  down  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction, 
the  pew  felt  good  to  have  pleased  some  one.  The 
man  took  the  hymn-book  and  was  about  to  open  it 
when  he  saw  a  poor  woman,  sitting  near  him, 
who  had  no  book.  He  walked  over  to  her,  and 
handed  her  his  own,  and  when  the  poor  woman 
looked  thankful  both  the  rich  man  and  the  hymn- 
book  were  glad  to  have  made  some  one  happy. 
And  when,  during  the  singing,  the  poor  woman 
dropped  a  tear  on  the  book,  it  did  not  mind  it  at 
all. 

A  cloud  passed  over  the  sun,  and  the  old  men 
and  women  could  not  read.  But  in  a  few  moments 
the  bright  rays  again  burst  through  the  windows, 
and  they  looked  so  cheerful,  no  doubt,  because 
they  could  fill  others  with  cheer. 

When  the  pastor  opened  the  Bible,  and  said, 
“I  shall  read  you  a  chapter  from  the  Book  of  Life,” 
all  the  people  were  eagerly  listening,  some  of  them 
as  though  they  were  hungry  for  the  words.  Then 
the  Bible  no  longer  thought  of  its  antiquity;  it 
just  felt  happy  in  giving  its  comforting  secrets  to 
sad  and  seeking  hearts. 

And  thus  they  all  were  happy  in  serving.  And 
their  quarrel  ?  What  was  it  they  were  quarreling 

about? 


THE  RING 


HE  feasting  was  over,  and  the  last  sounds 
had  retired,  leaving  a  kiss  on  the  sunken 
but  now  flushed  cheeks  of  the  prodigal. 
The  night  was  beautiful. 

The  brothers  were  alone.  The  elder 
was  less  sullen,  but  not  yet  reconciled. 

“But  why  the  ring?”  he  demanded. 

The  prodigal  looked  up  questioningly. 

“The  ring?”  he  repeated,  as  though  groping 
to  understand. 

“Yes,  the  ring.”  The  eyes  were  defiant,  but 
they  softened  when  he  saw  the  marks  of  his 
brother’s  suffering. 

“I  can  understand  why  father  gave  you  a 
new  robe,  for  you  were  in  tatters;  and  sandals, 
for  your  feet  were  bare  and  bruised;  and  food, 
for  you  were  famished.  But  a  ring?  Did  you 
need  a  ring?” 


[41] 


42 


THE  RING 


The  prodigal  looked  away,  out  at  the  stars, 
his  companions  of  many  a  night,  when  he  was 
homeward  bound,  rehearsing  his  confession.  They 
seemed  to  understand. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  he  kissed  the  ring. 

The  elder  brother  urged. 

“Why  the  ring?”  the  prodigal  answered 
softly.  “Brother,  I  was  in  need  of  the  ring  more 
than  anything  else.” 

The  elder  brother  was  puzzled. 

“I  was  thankful  for  the  robe  and  the  sandals 
and  food;  but,  when  my  hand  felt  the  ring,  I 
knew  I  had  my  father’s  love,  the  old  love  of  my 
childhood.  I  was  accepted  not  as  a  hired  servant, 
but  as  his  child.” 

The  wind  was  whispering  to  the  palms,  and 
the  elder  brother  began  to  feel  the  beauty  of  the 
night.  The  prodigal  touched  his  brother’s  arm. 

“I  have  come  back  to  you  and  father  and  to 
God.  And,  brother,  God  too  gave  me  a  ring.  He 
gives  not  merely  things  and  thoughts.  He  gives 
his  love,  himself,  to  those  that  need  him  and  want 
him.” 

God  is  not  merely  a  system  of  laws  or  an  un¬ 
conscious  soul  of  the  universe.  He  is  the  Father, 
a  person;  and  he  offers  his  children  the  ring  of 
his  love.  And  that  is  just  what  we  need. 


fRADITION 


OHN  Stone  purchased  a  rare  old  volume 
from  an  antiquarian.  He  had  it  carefully 
cleaned  by  expert  hands,  and  was  de¬ 
lighted  with  the  cover.  The  contents  of 
the  book  related  to  medieval  fables,  and 
were  of  little  value.  Ah,  but  the  cover!  The 
beauty  of  the  grained  leather  was  set  off  by 
slightly  impressed  points  and  lines  of  gold,  and 
in  the  middle  was  stamped  a  picture  of  David  with 
his  harp.  A  bibliophile  told  Mr.  Stone  that  the 
volume  might  have  belonged  to  Jean  Grolier,  a 
famous  collector  in  the  time  of  Francis  I. 

The  owner  was  very  much  impressed. 

“This  must  become  an  heirloom  in  the  Stone 
family,”  he  mused. 

He  admired  the  cover  over  and  over  again, 
and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  so  rare  a  treasure 
ought  to  be  protected.  He  decided  to  have  it 

[43] 


44 


TRADITION 


covered,  ^o  ne  askea  a  Joook-oinaer  to  reoixia  u 
m  soil  learner. 

vvnen  it  was  limshea  it  was  very  presentauie. 
me  coior  was  a  ricii  maroon,  ana  me  workmaii- 
srnp  was  periect.  ivrr.  ^tone,  However,  was  not 
satisnea.  vviuie  me  secona  cover  was  to  oe  mereiy 
a  protection,  lie  thought  it  ought  to  oe  ornamen¬ 
tal  enough  to  serve  as  an  introduction  to  me 
beauty  or  the  original,  so  to  speak.  Ui  course, 
very  lew  besides  inmseit  knew  01  me  treasure  be¬ 
neath  the  maroon,  and  very  lew  were  to  know  it, 
but  even  the  exterior  ol  a  book  of  that  value  ought 
to  be  artistic.  So  he  had  an  artist  paint  a  coat 
of  arms  on  it,  a  conception  of  his  own,  in  which 
a  stone  figured  prominently. 

John  Stone  died  suddenly.  His  son,  Henry 
Stone,  found  the  book  and  was  delighted  with  the 
cover.  He  found  the  volume  in  the  private  drawer 
of  his  father’s  desk,  and  he  concluded  that  the 
book  had  been  very  dear  to  him.  Of  course,  he 
would  keep  it  and  cherish  it  as  an  heirloom.  In 
fact,  it  was  too  precious  to  be  left  unprotected. 
So  he  made  up  his  mind  to  have  it  covered  with  a 
cloth  binding.  Just  as  a  protection,  to  be  sure, 
but  secure,  as  artistic  as  possible,  for  the  volume, 
so  dear  to  his  father,  was  precious  to  him.  The 
bookbinder,  cautioned  and  encouraged  by  prom¬ 
ises  of  reward,  did  his  very  best,  so  that  even 


TRADITION 


45 


Henry  Stone  was  delighted.  It  was  too  sacred  a 
matter  to  talk  of  to  any  one,  and  the  volume  was 
locked  away.  War  broke  out,  and  Henry  Stone 
died  on  the  field  of  battle. 

“Look  at  this  volume  of  old  legends,”  the  exe¬ 
cutor  said  to  young  Samuel  Stone.  “What  a  thick 
cover;  but  a  pretty  one.  Your  father  must  have 
thought  a  great  deal  of  the  old  book.  He  kept  it 
with  his  valuables/’ 

Samuel  Stone  agreed  that  it  was  a  pretty 
cover.  And  he  revered  the  book.  On  the  title 
page  he  found  the  names  of  his  father  and  grand¬ 
father,  and  the  volume  became  venerable  to  him. 
He  decided  to  have  it  covered. 

“Just  to  protect  the  cover,”  he  confided  to 
the  binder;  “but,  of  course,  firm  enough  to  give 
it  a  permanent  appearance.” 

The  binder  was  going  to  make  objections,  but 
he  was  cut  short  by  Samuel,  whose  possessions 
made  him  a  man  of  authority.  It  was  just  a  pa¬ 
per  cover,  but  it  was  beautiful.  The  color  was  a 
soft  purple,  and  the  names  of  John  Stone,  Henry 
Stone,  and  Samuel  Stone  were  embossed  in  gold, 
truly  a  royal  combination.  The  craftsman  was 
paid  a  handsome  sum,  and  the  book  was  laid  aside 
in  a  safe  place. 

Samuel  Stone  was  hot-blooded.  Books  had 
little  attraction  for  him.  He  was  sorry  there  were 


46 


TRADITION 


no  wars  at  the  time.  He  tried  to  satisfy  his  pas¬ 
sions  in  various  ways,  and  finally  died  of  a  sword 
cut  received  in  a  duel. 

One  day  the  widow  sat  by  the  fire  and  wept 
over  a  beautifully  bound  book  which  the  man  of 
law  had  handed  her.  The  three  names  embossed 
on  the  cover  were  dear  to  her,  especially  the  last, 
that  of  her  husband.  Charles  Stone,  heir  to  the 
estate,  sat  on  the  floor,  carving  a  boat,  despite 
the  gentle  protests  of  his  mother.  He  had  the 
stubborn  spirit  of  the  Stones. 

As  she  wept,  she  laid  the  book  on  a  chair  be¬ 
side  her,  and  gave  rein  to  memory.  The  cover 
attracted  the  boy.  What  in  all  the  world  was  finer 
to  try  his  new  knife  on  than  this  pretty  book.  A 
longing  seized  him  to  cut  out  those  bright  let¬ 
ters  and  play  with  them.  So  he  cut,  and  cut 
deeply. 

“Charles,  what  are  you  doing?”  the  mother 
cried  in  alarm.  “The  heirloom!  Oh,  how  could 
you !  This  book  was  very  precious  to  your  father. 
He  revered  it.  He  kept  it  with  the  jewels  of  the 
family.” 

Charles  did  not  understand,  but  he  was  anx¬ 
ious  for  further  developments.  Meanwhile  the 
mother  noticed  another  cover  beneath  the  pretty 
one,  and  another  beneath  that.  She  wondered. 
The  butler  asked  an  expert  antiquarian  to  call. 


TRADITION 


47 


When  the  latter  came  and  began  to  peel,  his  cheeks 
flushed.  He  removed  the  paper  cover,  and  they  be¬ 
held  the  cloth  cover.  He  removed  the  cloth  cover, 
and  they  saw  the  leather  with  the  artistic  coat 
of  arms  of  almost  a  hundred  years  ago.  That 
was  taken  off,  and  their  eyes  feasted  on  the  quiet 
beauty  of  the  original. 

The  antiquarian  was  enrapt. 

“And  to  think  of  it,”  he  exclaimed.  “Each 
generation  revered  a  layer  of  less  value.” 


"EVEN  AS  A  HEN" 


HIS  morning  there  was  a  commotion  in  the 
chicken  run  that  threatened  to  become 
truculent. 

F or  several  days  we  had  kept  the  lit¬ 
tle  chicks  that  had  peeped  and  labored 
their  way  out  of  the  white  shells,  unappreciative 
of  the  brooding  warmth,  in  the  sun  room ;  and  al¬ 
though  a  few  of  them  died,  the  rest  throve  nicely. 
For  the  adults  as  well  as  the  children  it  was  a 
succession  of  thrills  to  see  the  little  ones  gathered 
under  the  wings  of  the  mother  hen,  a  wonder  that 
gave  a  figure  of  speech  to  the  yearning  and  burn¬ 
ing  love  of  Jesus. 

Last  night,  however,  we  domiciled  the  hen  and 
her  brood  in  the  little  coop  in  the  corner  of  the 
run.  When  the  morning  brightened,  the  chickens 
of  the  main  compartment  filed  out,  the  hens  de¬ 
murely  as  beseems  them,  and  the  roosters  with 
stately  poise,  which  seems  to  be  their  prerogative. 

[48] 


“EVEN  AS  A  HEN” 


49 


From  the  smaller  coop  at  the  other  end  of 
the  enclosure  emerged  the  mother  hen  with  her 
chicks,  just  about  four  days  old.  The  other  chick-, 
ens  were  surprised.  Evidently  there  were  two 
armies  in  one  camp.  And  a  deep  though  errone¬ 
ous  instinct  told  them  they  were  hostile  armies. 
What  made  them  think  so  is  very  hard  to  tell,  for 
there  was  room  enough  for  all  of  them.  To 
ruminate  on  the  origin  of  that  instinct  would  land 
us  in  very  deep  water,  and  not  everybody  can 
swim.  The  writer  himself  is  well  aware  of  his 
limitations.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  this  instinct 
antedates  chickens  and  has  not  yet  been  overcome 
by  man. 

However,  they  stood  there  and  glared  at  each 
other. 

The  older  hens  and  roosters  said,  “What  do 
these  newcomers  want?  Dispute  our  realm? 
Scratch  on  the  soil  that  belongs  to  us  ?  Eat  of  the 
food  that  is  given  to  us?  They  have  no  business 
here.  We  rule  here;  they  are  usurpers.  This  is 
our  country;  they  are  foreigners.  Out  with 
them.” 

And  the  mother  of  the  little  ones  said,  “1 
know  they  hate  my  brood,  my  darling  brood.  I 
know  they  will  peck  them  and  kill  them  if  I  do  not 
defend  them.” 

And  although  she  had  never  attended  a  mili- 


50 


“EVEN  AS  A  HEN” 


tary  school,  she  resolved  at  once  to  defend  by  at¬ 
tacking. 

She  attacked  with  fury.  The  history  of  the 
initial  onslaught  will  never  be  written,  as  the  re¬ 
porters,  strange  to  say,  had  had  no  inkling,  and 
the  film  man  was  absent.  Battles  are  still  fought 
in  the  world  that  are  missed  by  the  movie  enter¬ 
prise. 

When  one  of  us  arrived,  being  drawn  by  the 
tumult  of  battle,  she  saw  the  mother  hen  drag 
one  of  the  other  hens  through  the  dust,  the  rest 
of  the  enemy  huddled  in  the  corner,  cackling  and 
crowing  in  horror. 

Now,  according  to  reliable  statistics,  there 
were  seven  full  grown  chickens  on  the  one  side. 
That  is  to  say,  the  hens  were  old  enough  to  en¬ 
courage  their  owners  to  regard  the  laying  of  the 
first  egg  as  imminent,  and  the  roosters  were  be¬ 
ginning  to  crow.  This,  however,  is  where  the  re¬ 
liability  of  statistics  ceases.  We  are  not  yet  sure 
just  how  many  of  them  are  roosters,  even  though 
they  have  been  under  observation  for  a  long  time. 
We  had  picked  out  one,  but  some  of  the  neighbors 
smiled  at  our  being  so  unsophisticated.  They 
pointed  out  at  least  three  roosters.  And  the  other 
day,  a  minister  from  a  neighboring  church  called, 
on  a  purely  professional  matter.  He  is  a  musician 


“EVEN  AS  A  HEN” 


51 


and  a  married  man,  and  he  knows  a  great  deal 
about  the  harmonies  of  life. 

He  looked  through  the  wire  screening, 
blinked,  and  looked  again,  and  then  asserted  that 
in  his  opinion  there  were  four  roosters  and  three 
hens.  Of  course,  he  assured  us,  he  had  no  zeal  in 
the  matter  and  would  not  endeavor  to  force  his 
opinion  on  us,  but  he  could  not  well  do  otherwise 
than  stand  by  what  he  conscientiously  regarded 
as  the  truth. 

What  could  we  do?  We  could  not  be  dis¬ 
courteous  to  our  visitor,  especially  as  he  is  a  stout 
man  and  the  mental  concentration  had  made  him 
perspire.  Besides,  he  might  be  right.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  would  not  do  to  antagonize  the 
neighbors,  who  are  very  close  to  us  in  New  York, 
almost  upon  us. 

So  we  were  silent,  the  more  as  the  exact  num¬ 
ber  of  roosters  will  not  materially  affect  the  moral 
of  the  story.  Let  us  compromise  and  say  there 
were  three.  There  they  stood  in  all  their  mascu¬ 
line  strength  and  pride,  the  hens  looking  to  them 
for  leadership  in  strategy  and  attack,  and  not  a 
Foch  among  them.  Huddled  in  a  heap,  they 
crowded  into  the  corner,  smitten  with  fear.  Had 
it  not  been  for  the  wire  wall,  the  possibilities  of 
their  flight  would  have  been  infinite,  at  least  sev¬ 
eral  blocks. 


52 


“EVEN  AS  A  HEN” 


Four  hens  and  three  roosters  cowed.  By 
what?  By  one  hen.  And  what  made  her  so  for¬ 
midable?  A  great  cause.  A  mother  defending 
her  children.  I  suppose  in  war  we  call  that  mo¬ 
rale;  inspired  by  the  cause  for  which  one  fights, 
making  one  man  equal  to  five. 

That  is  why  it  has  happened  a  thousand  times 
in  the  course  of  history,  when  Biam  declared  war 
on  Triam,  that  they  did  not  tell  the  people,  the 
fighters,  the  real  cause  of  the  war,  namely,  some 
weak  monarch’s  wounded  vanity  or  the  aggran¬ 
disement  of  the  House  of  Highlivers,  but  they  in¬ 
vited  a  “patriotic”  cause,  often  nothing  more  than 
a  balderdash  slogan  of  the  flag  and  the  defence 
of  the  country.  It  was  almost  always  made  out 
to  be  a  defensive  war.  Something  like  Demos- 
thenizing  the  earth  to  take  possession  of  the  moon 
lest  the  strong  races  of  some  other  planet  get 
there  first  and  turn  off  the  light,  leaving  us  noth¬ 
ing  but  starlight  for  our  evening  strolls  through 
the  country. 

Such  fictitious  causes  will  lose  their  drawing 
power,  however.  They  have  almost  lost  them  now. 
If  ever  again  a  nation  wants  to  hurl  its  subjects 
into  a  cruel  conflict  without  a  cause  that  is  ob¬ 
viously  just,  the  leaders  will  have  to  be  very  in¬ 
ventive  to  find  a  pretext  that  will  fool  the  people. 
Republics  may  have  the  advantage,  because  they 


“EVEN  AS  A  HEN” 


58 


have  more  general  elections,  and  elections  furnish 
excellent  opportunities  for  slogan  camouflage.  On 
the  other  hand  the  people  will  be  the  better  trained 
in  detecting  deceit.  However,  we  venture  to  pre¬ 
dict  the  addition  of  a  secretary  of  slogans  to  the 
various  cabinets  in  the  event  of  another  great 
war. 

But  that  does  not  invalidate  the  theory  that 
a  great  cause  inspires  us  with  wonderful  strength. 
Look  at  Thermopylae,  at  the  Ironsides  of  Crom¬ 
well,  the  Swiss  in  their  mountains  of  freedom, 
look  at  the  Geusen  of  Holland,  look  at  Valley 
Forge. 

And  behold  the  prophets  who  defied  kings 
and  nations,  the  apostles  who  obeyed  God  more 
than  men,  the  Savonarolas  making  princes  quake. 
Follow  the  martyr  trail  of  the  missionaries,  all 
red  and  gold.  The  inspiration  of  a  great  cause  is 
the  secret  of  their  heroism.  They  found  life  worth 
while  because  they  lived  for  something  worth 
while. 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  MODERN 

MINISTER 


ONDAY,  February  28 — Bad  case  of  brain¬ 
fag  this  morning.  But  I  expected  it.  I 
preached  so  hard  yesterday  that  I  was 
tired  out.  I  must  find  more  time  for  pre¬ 
paring.  Whenever  I  am  poorly  prepared 
I  preach  hard.  When  I  am  well  prepared,  I  am 
at  ease.  Some  people  compliment  me,  but  I  know 
better.  And  when  old  Mrs.  Grimm,  good  old 
soul,  told  me  she  always  feels  edified  by  the  sound 
of  my  voice,  I  felt  ashamed  of  myself.  Well, 
Easter  is  near,  I  intended  to  preach  a  series  of  ser¬ 
mons  on  the  triumphal  entry  into  Jerusalem.  I 
shall  be  ready. 


Ready  for  my  stroll  this  afternoon.  Going 
into  the  woods  to  study  barks  and  leaves.  Mr. 
Swift  just  called  up  and  said  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Burns  had  not  been  in  church  for  two  Sundays 


[54] 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  MINISTER  55 


and  he  had  heard  that  they  were  disgruntled  about 
something.  And  that  Sam  Taylor  had  been  ab¬ 
sent  from  his  Sunday  school  class  for  several 
weeks.  I  shall  have  to  see  him.  He  is  a  good 
worker,  but  so  easily  offended. 

Dropped  in  to  see  the  Burnses  on  my  way  to 
the  woods — but  I  never  got  to  the  woods.  Spent 
two  hours  with  Mrs.  Burns.  Told  me  she  and  her 
husband  stayed  away  to  see  if  they  would  be 
missed.  She  thinks  our  people  are  very  cold,  and 
there  is  too  much  favoritism  shown  in  our  church. 
Told  me  about  the  church  they  belonged  to  be¬ 
fore  they  came  to  us.  There  the  people  are  so  dif¬ 
ferent  ;  they  are  so  cordial,  and  it  was  “Mrs.  Burns 
here  and  Mrs.  Burns  there.,,  And  the  services 
were  so  impressive.  The  minister  always  came  to 
church  in  a  silk  hat.  When  I  asked  her  why  she 
left  there,  she  just  answered:  “Oh,  well — .”  I 
think  she  will  be  in  church  next  Sunday. 

Wonder  if  there  are  any  violets  in  the  woods. 

Went  to  the  supper  of  the  Pollyanna  Club  to¬ 
night.  I  didn’t  know  they  wanted  me  to  make  an 
address,  but  I  might  have  expected  it.  The  ladies 
all  said  it  was  a  fine  speech;  but  what  did  I  say? 
Something  about  a  silver  lining;  that’s  all.  But 
I  guess  that  is  what  they  want;  though,  really, 
it’s  the  cloud  itself  that  brings  the  blessing. 

Now  about  my  sermon.  Oh,  well,  I  still  have 


56  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  MINISTER 


five  days.  Hope  I  sleep  well  tonight.  But  I  wish 
I  could  have  been  with  the  barks  and  leaves. 

Tuesday,  March  1 — Thought  I  could  spend  a 
morning  in  my  study.  It  is  as  dear  to  me  as  any 
place  in  the  world.  A  telephone  call  urges  me  to 
come  to  the  Home  for  the  Aged.  Some  trouble 
there;  work  for  the  committee  on  discipline. 

Returned  in  time  for  lunch.  Spent  the  whole 
morning  in  the  Home.  Some  of  the  members  of 
the  committee  were  late,  and  the  case  was  com¬ 
plicated. 

Did  not  look  at  my  mail  this  morning.  Now 
that  I  do,  it  is  all  bills,  and  the  budget  of  the 
month  is  heavy — heavy  for  a  minister.  Feel  cross 
at  the  thought  of  always  being  in  cramped  cir¬ 
cumstances.  Even  my  books  irritate  me. 

Funeral  of  Henry  Moulder.  A  few  calls. 
Meeting  of  the  men’s  club.  Well,  tomorrow  morn¬ 
ing  I'll  start  on  my  sermon. 

Wednesday,  March  2 — Much  mail,  most  of  it 
from  the  boards  and  committees  of  the  General 
Council.  Almost  every  letter  marked  “impor¬ 
tant.”  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  read  it  all,  though 
it  took  time.  Also  questionaries  for  the  annual 
report  of  the  church.  This  will  mean  much  work. 

Mr.  Spencer  brought  me  a  book  and  asked  me 
to  read  it  if  I  would  be  so  kind.  “As  soon  as  pos- 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  MINISTER  57 


sible,  please/’  Because  he  had  had  an  argument 
with  a  friend  who  had  been  captivated  by  the  con¬ 
tents.  I  promised  to  read  it.  It  may  open  an  op¬ 
portunity  for  pastoral  work. 

Read  part  of  the  book.  Written  by  a  western 
clergyman  who  tries  to  prove  with  subtlety  and 
boldness,  mostly  the  latter,  that  the  impending 
coming  of  Christ  is  not  the  second  but  the  third. 
The  book  is  shot  through  with  Bible  verses.  The 
writer  waxes  warm  over  his  subject,  and  his  in¬ 
vectives  against  the  “second-comers”  are  sixteen- 
inch  shells.  Now,  I  hope  nobody  will  try  to  prove 
that  the  expected  coming  is  the  fourth.  But  I 
guess  the  third-comers  will  have  their  day ;  every¬ 
thing  presented  with  boldness  has  its  day. 

I  am  glad  Christ  has  come  to  me. 

Called  on  Elizabeth  Wellen,  poor  cripple. 
Prayer  meeting.  I’ll  try  to  think  of  my  sermon 
in  bed.  But  I’m  afraid  I’ll  soon  fall  asleep ;  I  am 
tired. 

Thursday,  March  3 — Papers  are  full  of  pre¬ 
parations  for  inauguration  day.  Good  introduc¬ 
tion  to  my  sermon,  showing  the  difference  between 
the  president  coming  to  Washington  and  Christ 
entering  Jerusalem.  I  know  some  will  call  it 
catchy.  But  I  want  more.  I’d  like  to  preach  a 
good  sermon  next  Sunday. 

Painter  called  to  see  the  church,  in  order  to 


58  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  MINISTER 


give  an  estimate  on  interior  decorating.  Had  a 
long  talk  with  him.  Prided  himself  on  the  piety 
of  his  wife’s  relations. 

Meeting  of  the  ladies’  aid  society.  The  chair¬ 
man  asked  for  my  views  on  the  coming  May  fair, 
and  elicited  my  promise  to  help.  My  views  ap¬ 
plauded.  Oh,  I  am  popular;  but  I  often  feel  as 
though  I  were  missing  the  real  thing.  I’ll  have  to 
get  at  my  sermon  tomorrow. 

Attended  a  meeting  of  the  Red  Cross  advisory 
council.  Suggested  that  I  might  send  a  represen¬ 
tative  to  take  my  place,  but  the  offer  was  not  ap¬ 
proved.  “It  is  your  personality  we  want,  Rev¬ 
erend.” 

Friday,  March  4 — Papers  are  full  of  the  in¬ 
auguration  festivities.  Was  “visited”  by  the  most 
genial  book  agent  I  have  ever  met.  I  was  adaman¬ 
tine  to  all  his  blandishments  and  arguments,  but 
I  almost  broke  down  when  I  saw  his  look  of  utter 
commiseration.  To  think  of  depriving  myself  of 
so  valuable  an  addition  to  my  library!  To  think 
of  foregoing  the  equipment  of  the  Ancient  and 
Modern  Encyclopedia  of  Homiletics!  Now,  how¬ 
ever,  after  some  reflection,  I  believe  he  will  re¬ 
cover.  Wondered  if  we  ought  not  to  be  as  aggres¬ 
sive.  But  we  certainly  cannot  use  the  same  meth¬ 
ods,  we  have  a  different  commodity.  The  best 
way  of  doing  our  work  is  to  let  the  divine  stream 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  MINISTER  59 


flow  through  us  into  other  hearts.  And  that  would 
rather  preclude  the  aggressiveness  of  the  drum¬ 
mer. 

Mr.  Anderson  telephoned,  asking  me  over  to 
his  place  to  discuss  the  Easter  Sunday  school  pro¬ 
gram. 

Received  a  letter  from  Mrs.  De  Mott,  telling 
me  that  she  would  have  to  leave  the  church  if  we 
received  that  “impossible”  Mrs.  Walberg.  Said 
she  had  trouble  with  her  in  her  former  church. 
“Utterly  incompatible.”  That  is  a  problem.  Mrs. 
Walberg  seems  to  be  a  refined  woman  of  quiet 
force,  but  I  should  not  like  to  see  Mrs.  De  Mott 
leave.  She  has  a  following. 

Spoke  at  the  Christian  Endeavor  rally  in  Al¬ 
lison  Memorial  church.  Came  home  late,  but  sat 
in  my  study  for  a  little  while  to  brood  over  my 
sermon. 

Saturday,  March  5 — Went  to  placate  Mrs.  De 
Mott.  Called  on  her  in  the  morning  to  make  sure 
to  find  her  in.  She  certainly  has  a  splendid  re¬ 
pertoire  to  characterize  persons  with  whom  she 
is  on  terms  of  incompatibility.  She  dislikes  Mrs. 
Walberg,  but  all  the  reasons  she  gives  for  doing 
so  amount  to  “because.”  Her  antipathy  evidently 
has  some  hidden  spring.  How  candor  would  lu¬ 
bricate  the  wheels  of  life. 

Alexander  Small  called  just  as  I  was  going  to 


60  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  MINISTER 

'  ‘I  .  : 

settle  down  to  work  on  my  sermon.  He  represents 
the  Boy  Brothers,  a  new  organization  for  boys, 
with  military,  gymnastic,  outdoor,  literary  and 
also  religious  features.  Took  two  hours  of  my 
time  to  impress  on  me  the  necessity  of  introducing 
this  organization,  the  Bee  Bees,  into  my  church. 
No  church  is  up  to  date  without  it,  it  fills  a  long 
felt  want,  and  surpasses  everything  that  has  ever 
gone  before.  1  told  him  we  had  too  many  organi¬ 
zations  now,  but  he  smiled  and  assured  me  that 
Boy  Brothers  was  something  different.  When  he 
left,  I  found  myself  perspiring. 

I  shall  have  to  stay  up  late  tonight  to  work 
on  my  sermon. 

I  had  forgotten.  Mr.  Clarke  came  and  re¬ 
minded  me  of  the  committee  on  new  hymn  books. 
The  men  could  not  meet  at  any  other  time. 

Just  got  home.  It  is  late.  Find  notices  on 
my  desk  earnestly  soliciting  my  presence  at  the 
community  council  executive  session  on  Tuesday 
afternoon,  at  the  luncheon  of  the  Mighty  Good 
Club  Wednesday  noon,  and  at  the  meeting  of  the 
committee  of  twenty-five  on  Friday  evening,  to 
prepare  for  the  union  revival  services  to  be  con¬ 
ducted  by  Tom  Tussler,  the  converted  prizefighter, 
and  Blind  Jennie,  the  girl  evangelist. 

Tomorrow's  sermon — the  Lord  help  me! 


THE  PRACTICAL  THING 


HE  Secretary  of  the  National  Emergency 
Commission  looked  up  from  his  papers, 
turned  in  his  swivel  chair,  and  asked  the 
stenographer  to  take  a  letter. 

“I  want  this  letter  to  go  to  all  the 
churches  in  the  country,”  he  said  with  fine  feeling. 

After  a  pucker  and  a  gaze  into  the  unseen 
he  began  to  dictate. 

“To  the  Churches  of  America. 

“Dear  Friends, 

“It  is  with  profound  gratitude  that  the  men 
in  public  life,  particularly  the  men  of  large  re¬ 
sponsibility  in  the  late  crisis,  acknowledge  their 
indebtedness  to  the  churches  for  their  splendid  co¬ 
operation  in  the  emergencies  of  the  cruel  war,  in 
eluding  their  help  in  the  various  drives :  Liberty 
Loan,  Red  Cross,  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  Y.  W.  C.  A.,  Sal¬ 
vation  Army,  and  others. 

[61] 


62 


THE  PRACTICAL  THING 


“Indeed,  we  believe  that  without  your  valued 
assistance,  moral  and  material,  the  final  outcome 
of  the  war  would  have  been  doubtful.  We  feel 
more  than  ever  that  we  need  the  church. 

“Allow  us  to  assure  you  of  our  highest  appre¬ 
ciation.  The  history  of  these  trying  years  will 
have  to  report  that  the  churches  were  tried  and 
not  found  wanting.” 

There  was  a  pause.  The  brow  puckered 
again,  and  the  eyes  gazed  intently. 

“That  letter  isn't  complete.  I  want  to  say 
something  else.”  He  addressed  partly  the  win¬ 
dow  shade  and  partly  the  stenographer.  “I  would 
like  to  say  something  striking;  something  prac¬ 
tical.  Can't  you  suggest  something?” 

As  the  window  shade  remained  silent,  the 
stenographer  felt  it  incumbent  upon  himself  to 
reply.  He  coughed. 

“Would  you  care  to  say  that  in  view  of  your 
recognition  of  the  high  value  of  the  church,  the 
public  men  feel  themselves  morally  obliged  to  be¬ 
come  more  regular  in  their  attendance  of  church 
services?  I  know  the  churches  would  like — .” 

“Well,  I — I  don't — you  see —  By  the  way, 
what  time  is  it? —  What  do  you  think  of  that? 
I  am  late  for  my  appointment.  Put  that  letter 
aside  for  the  present.  We’ll  take  it  up  again,  when 
I  have  a  convenient  season.” 


BROTHER  MARTIN 


UTHER  is  drowsy.  He  is  working  on  his 
war  sermon  against  the  Turks,  for  the 
enemy  of  Christendom  has  reached  the 
walls  of  Vienna,  and  Europe  trembles. 
Did  not  Constantinople  fall  less  than  a 
hundred  years  ago? 

On  the  old  desk,  before  him,  lies  the  manu¬ 
script,  every  letter  bearing  testimony  to  a  master¬ 
ful  hand.  He  calls  the  Turks  Gog  and  Magog,  and 
appeals  to  his  countrymen  to  fight  the  common 
enemy  with  the  bravery  displayed  by  their  fore¬ 
fathers  in  staying  the  Romans.  He  asks  them  to 
march  under  the  banner  of  the  emperor,  to  whom 
God  has  entrusted  the  authority  of  temporal 
power. 

He  has  written  with  the  fire  of  a  prophet.  But 
now  he  feels  drowsy,  and  his  head  nods.  He  be¬ 
gins  a  reverie  of  Worms,  and  Spires,  and  Mar¬ 
burg. 


[63] 


64 


BROTHER  MARTIN 


i 

The  massive  head  jerks  up.  Ah,  yes,  the 
Turks !  He  seizes  the  quill  again.  But  the  strain 
of  hard  work  is  asserting  itself,  and  he  nods  again. 

There !  Was  that  Philip  Melanchthon  calling 
him?  No ;  the  voice  was  softer,  like  a  gentle  purr. 

“Martin !” 

Luther  looks  up.  It  is  late  in  the  afternoon, 
near  November.  Who  is  that  standing  over  there 
near  the  door?  A  monk  in  the  garb  of  the  Au- 
gustinian  order.  Luther  smiles. 

“Brother  Martin !”  the  voice  pleads. 

“What  is  it,  brother?” 

“I  have  come  to  advise  you.  You  are  making 
a  big  mistake.” 

“Are  you  with  us  or  against  us,”  asks  the 
voice  that  is  feared  by  princes. 

“I  want  to  advise  you  for  your  own  good.  You 
are  making  a  big  mistake.” 

“What  mistake?”  Even  the  voice  seems  to 
bristle. 

“Martin,  Martin!  You  are  a  good  man,  and 
a  prophet.  But  you  don't  know  much  of  the  ways 
that  lead  to  victory.  You  are  as  innocent  as  a 
dove,  but  in  addition  you  ought  to  be  as  wise  as  a 
serpent.  You  know  that  is  the  great  injunction. 

“Now,  look  here !”  The  visitor  draws  nearer. 


BROTHER  MARTIN 


65 


It  is  growing  darker.  The  eyes  of  Luther  are 
strangely  luminous. 

“Here  you  are  preparing  a  sermon  against 
the  Turks,”  the  velvet  tones  proceeded;  “and 
really  they  are  your  friends.  So  long  as  the  Turks 
batter  against  the  walls  of  Christendom,  the  em¬ 
peror  cannot  carry  out  the  decree  of  Worms  and 
the  wishes  of  the  Pope.  The  Lutheran  heresy — 
he  smiled  understanding^ — has  a  chance  to  take 
deeper  root  and  grow  and  spread  so  long  as  the 
crescent  can  keep  the  cross  busy.  And  here  you 
are  urging  your  countrymen,  even  the  Protestants, 
to  fight  with  the  emperor  against  the  Turk.  Par¬ 
don  me,  Martin;  but  that  is  foolish  of  you.  A 
great  man  like  you  ought  to  be  more  of  a  general. 
You  could  afford  to  send  secret  emissaries  to  en¬ 
courage  Solyman  and  his  generals.” 

Luther  fumbles  the  ink  bottle. 

“Look  at  the  king  of  France,”  the  visitor 
continues.  “He  is  a  shrewd  man.  His  aim  is  to 
weaken  the  power  of  the  emperor,  and  to  that  end 
he  befriends  the  Protestants  of  Germany.  Per¬ 
sonally  he  does  not  like  you  and  your  friends.  His 
heart  is  Catholic.  In  his  own  country  he  would 
look  with  scant  favor  upon  the  heresy,  as  they 
call  it.  But  he  knows  that  the  German  Protes¬ 
tants  are  a  thorn  in  the  emperor’s  side,  and  he  is 
taking  pains  to  keep  the  point  as  sharp  as  pos- 


66 


BROTHER  MARTIN 


sible.  That  is  diplomacy.  Francis  has  penetra¬ 
tion.^ 

Luther  is  breathing  heavily.  The  air  is  thick. 

“And  your  cause  is  greater  far  than  the  cause 
of  Francis  of  France.  Your  end  would  justify 
all  means.” 

Luther  is  bending  over,  as  though  suddenly 
recognizing  his  adviser.  The  visitor’s  voice  soft¬ 
ens  down  to  a  whisper. 

“And  you  understand,  Martin,  nobody  need 
to  know  of  the  commission  excepting  one  or  two 
trusted  men.” 

With  a  jerk  Luther  rises,  and  flings  the  ink 
bottle  at  the  satanic  intruder.  A  crash  wakes 
him.  Bewildered,  he  hears  his  Katie  chiding,  as 
she  points  to  a  black  spot  on  the  wall. 


MAKING  TIME 


HE  speedometer  and  the  clock  had  a  quar¬ 
rel,  as  the  automobile  was  standing  near 
the  curb. 

“You  just  keep  time,”  nagged  the 
speedometer. 

“I'm  up  to  the  minute,”  the  clock  defended. 

“Yes,  but  you  just  keep  on  ticking  in  the  same 
old  way,  no  matter  how  fast  men  drive.” 

“What  do  you  do?” 

“I  measure  their  speed.  They  never  go  ahead 
of  me.  I  keep  up  with  them.  They  can't  go  too 
fast  for  me.” 

“They  never  get  ahead  of  me,”  echoed  the 
clock. 

“Never  get  ahead  of  you?  Why,  you  are  not 
keeping  up  with  the  times.” 

“The  times  never  get  ahead  of  time.  It  takes 
time  to  keep  up  with  the  times.” 

[67] 


68 


MAKING  TIME 


“You  are  trying  to  be  funny.” 

“No,  I  am  serious.  You  register  speed;  I 
register  time.  You  keep  up  with  men's  leisure  or 
hurry.  I  keep  up  with  the  great  clock  God  es¬ 
tablished  in  the  heavens.  And  they  never  get 
ahead  of  that.  Some  time  or  other  they  must  come 
to  time.  People  are  speeding  through  life,  but 
they  are  not  making  time.” 

“I  see  you  are  a  preacher.” 

“What  you  see  is  mostly  second-hand  preach¬ 
ing.  But  study  me,  and  you  will  hear  the  sun, 
moon,  and  stars  preaching  through  me.” 

“I  think  I  can  figure  out  what  you  mean.” 

“I  am  reminded  of  a  story  my  grandmother 
told  me.  It  was  a  fine  old  pendulum  clock,  an  ex¬ 
cellent  timepiece.  It  keept  time  like  a  sun-dial. 
One  day  the  little  boy  of  the  house  unscrewed 
the  weight  of  the  pendulum,  just  to  see  what  would 
happen.  And  the  pendulum  hurried  like  mad. 
The  second-hand  sped  around.  Also  the  minute- 
hand.  The  boy  could  even  see  the  hour-hand  mov¬ 
ing. 

“  ‘Mother,'  he  cried,  ‘come  and  see  the  clock 
making  time.' 

“But  the  mother  chided  the  boy.  She  knew 
that  the  clock  was  out  of  time.  The  heavenly 
bodies,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  summer  and 


MAKING  TIME 


69 


winter,  pursued  their  stately  way  in  spite  of  the 
mad  haste  of  the  clock.” 

“It  had  lost  its  weight.” 

“Exactly.  And  just  so  men  that  hurry 
through  life  in  a  mad  rush  have  lost  their  weight. 
They  disregard  those  eternal  things  of  the  soul 
that  lend  weight  to  life.  They  may  be  Jabals,  Ju- 
bals,  and  Tubal-cains,  but  they  lack  the  balance- 
weight  that  keeps  them  in  time  with  eternity. 
They  are  out  of  harmony  with  God  as  the  clock 
was  out  of  harmony  with  the  sun.” 

“Then,  if  men  were  in  harmony  with  God, 
you  and  I  would  have  no  quarrel.” 

“No.” 

The  conversation  stopped,  for  the  master  of 
the  car  hurried  out  of  the  house,  and  quickly 
stepped  into  the  machine.  His  hands  trembled 
as  he  cranked  the  car  and  drove  off.  The 
clock  smiled  sadly  as  he  saw  the  haste  of  the  mo¬ 
ment  recorded  not  only  on  the  speedometer,  but 
in  the  nerve-centres  of  the  man’s  system,  to  be  ac¬ 
counted  for  in  days  to  come. 


ELIJAH 


HE  dry  reeds  crackled  as  they  parted,  and 
startled  the  ravens.  Elijah  looked  up, 
and  saw  a  bland  and  courteous  face  that 
seemed  out  of  harmony  with  the  wild 
scenery  of  the  Cherith.  He  dimly  remem¬ 
bered.  As  the  man  stood  before  him,  his  dress 
announced  a  courtier  from  Samaria. 

The  stranger  smiled,  while  Elijah's  features 
remained  adamant.  What  good  news  could  be  ex¬ 
pected  from  the  court  of  Ahab  and  Jezebel? 

“Don't  you  remember  me?"  the  courtier  be¬ 
gan  ingratiatingly.  “Don't  you  remember  Ethbaal 
Ben  Joseph,  the  friend  of  your  boyhood?  My 
father  married  a  woman  of  Sidon.  Don't  you  re¬ 
member?" 

Elijah  nodded  his  head.  He  remembered. 
How  hateful  the  marriage  had  been  to  his  people ! 
But  since  then — why,  even  the  king  had  married 

[70] 


ELIJAH 


71 


a  Sidonian  princess.  Something  in  Elijah’s  atti¬ 
tude  made  Ethbaal  keep  his  distance.  He  did  not, 
however,  lose  his  composure. 

“You  remember  how  we  roamed  together  over 
the  fields  of  Tishbe,”  he  continued.  “And  the  hills 
of  Naphtali.  And  you,  even  you,  loved  to  hear  my 
mother  tell  of  Sidon  and  its  wonderful  ships.” 

Elijah  trembled. 

“Now,  listen,  Elijah.”  He  took  a  step  nearer. 
“I  want  to  tell  you  something.  And  for  the  sake 
of  our  friendship  and  the  great  cause  of  Israel,  I 
hope  you  will  attend  and  be  reasonable.” 

The  prophet’s  silence  was  not  encouraging. 
Yet  the  speaker  continued. 

“I  have  come  from  the  queen.” 

Clouds  gathered  on  the  forehead  of  the 
prophet,  and  his  eyes  flashed  lightning. 

The  messenger  sat  down  in  the  shade  of  a 
rock. 

“Now  don’t  look  so  angry,  Elijah,”  he  said 
suavely.  “Really,  the  queen  thinks  a  great  deal  of 
you.  Your  sterling  loyalty  to  the  cause  you  rep¬ 
resent  commends  itself  to  the  favorable  attention 
of  everybody  who  is  at  all  able  to  appreciate  the 
finer  things  of  life.  And  you  may  be  sure  her  maj¬ 
esty  is  able  to  do  that.  Elijah,  she  is  one  woman 
in  a  million.  It  is  too  bad  that  two  strong  char- 


72 


ELIJAH 


acters  like  you  and  the  queen  are  opposed  to  each  • 
other.  It  isn’t  natural.  You  two  ought  to  work 
together.” 

He  paused. 

Elijah  was  studying  the  thin  rills  of  the 
brook. 

“If  you  knew  her  better,  Elijah,  you  would 
admire  her,  believe  me.  She  is  the  daughter  of  a 
great  king,  and  she  is  greater  than  her  father. 
She  comes  of  a  nation  that  is  known  for  brilliant 
daring,  and  I  believe  she  is  as  brilliant  as  any  of 
them.  She  is  a  good  queen.  You  ought  to  see 
what  she  does  for  religious  worship.  Her 
prophets  and  priests  do  not  suffer  want.  Ah,  you 
ought  to  see  her,  Elijah,  when  she  appears  at 
court  functions.  She  loves  jewelry,  but  she  is  the 
jewel.  The  king  is  all  right,  too.  Mind  you,  I’m 
not  saying  anything  disloyal  of  him.  But  the 
queen — !” 

Elijah  beckoned  the  ravens,  but  they  would 
not  return. 

“That  woman  could  rule  a  nation  ten  times 
as  large.  Thousands  are  willing  to  die  for  her. 
It  is  too  bad  you  misunderstand  her.  I  am  sure 
if  you  understood  you  would  relent.  Think  of 
what  good  you  could  do  if  you  came  to  her  court. 
By  and  by  you  would  reform  us  all.  There  would 
be  rain;  the  land  would  prosper;  and  you  could 


ELIJAH 


73 


be  the  court  preacher  of  righteousness.  Think  of 
it!  I  am  authorized  to  say”  (he  raised  his  voice 
and  gesticulated  significantly)  “that  such  a  posi¬ 
tion  would  be  open  to  you.  There  you  could 
prophesy  unmolested,  even  in  Samaria,  and  work 
until  the  worship  of  Baal  would  gently  merge  into 
the  worship  of  Jehovah. 

“Now  you  are  just  protesting.  You  have 
done  that  well,  and  we  all  admire  it,  the  queen 
most  of  all.  She  admires  you,  and  would  like  to 
have  you  nearer  to  her.  So  would  Ahab,  of  course. 
Mere  protesting  does  little  good.  Come  to  Sa¬ 
maria  ;  eat  the  queen’s  bread ;  and  work  for  a  real 
reformation.” 

He  was  cowed  by  Elijah’s  terrible  look.  How¬ 
ever,  he  soon  recovered.  He  was  a  seasoned  man. 

“As  to  the  religion  of  the  queen,  Elijah,  you 
must  take  a  broad  view  of  those  things,  don’t  be 
narrow,  old  boy.  I’m  half  and  half,  you  know; 
half  Sidonian  and  half  Israelite;  and  I  am  natu¬ 
rally  inclined  to  take  a  broad  view  of  things.  Be¬ 
sides  I  like  to  ponder  the  deeper  meanings  of  re¬ 
ligious  rites  and  beliefs.  Now  there  are  Baal  and 
Ashtoreth.  They  are  not  just  images  and  groves. 
We  must  go  deeper.  Baal  is  the  sun-god,  and  Ash¬ 
toreth  the  moon-god.  The  images  represent  them. 
And  sun  and  moon?  Why,  they  represent  the 
great  Spirit  that  controls  them.  The  heavens 


74 


ELIJAH 


declare  the  glory  of  God,'  you  know.  You  see  the 
Phoenicians  are  not  all  wrong.  One  only  has  to 
look  for  the  spiritual  meaning  of  their  rites.  No 
religion  is  all  wrong.  I  say  we  must  try  to  find 
the  good  that's  in  them.  And  then  start  with  that, 
and  gradually  develop  it  into  something  higher 
and  purer.  And  you  can  trust  the  queen  to  help 
you  if  you  come  to  court. 

“Of  course,  some  of  those  rites  are  too — in¬ 
teresting  ;  but  by  and  by — oh,  you  could  do  a  lot ! 
Just  let  the  people  feel  that  you’re  no  kill-joy,  but 
that  you’d  like  to  give  them  the  finer  joy.  Some¬ 
thing  like  that.  That  would  do  more  than  just 
pouting  out  here  in  the  wilderness  and  letting  the 
country  go  dry.” 

Elijah’s  voice  was  terrible. 

“Thus  said  the  Lord,”  he  roared. 

The  reeds  crackled  again,  and  Ethbaal  was 
gone. 

And  the  ravens  returned  to  comfort  the 
prophet. 


THE  DRUMMER'S 
DISAPPOINTMENT 


HE  drummer  sat  down  and  studied  his  sur¬ 
roundings  with  the  air  of  a  man  whose 
profession  trains  the  eye  as  well  as  the 
tongue. 

They  were  somewhat  unfamiliar  sur¬ 
roundings.  He  felt  he  had  lost  touch.  And  yet 
they  gave  him  a  homely  thrill.  They  reminded 
him  of  the  days  of  childhood  and  youth,  when  he 
went  to  church  with  his  parents  and  when  his  at¬ 
tendance  at  Sunday  school  often  received  honora¬ 
ble  mention. 

What  made  him  come  to  this  convention  of 
the  Loyal  League?  What  business  had  he,  the 
busy  drummer,  in  a  gathering  of  Christian  work¬ 
ers? 

Well,  it  was  that  letter.  A  letter  from  his 
wife,  in  which  she  had  told  him  that  the  Rev. 

[75] 


76 


THE  DISAPPOINTMENT 


Dr.  Manville  would  speak  at  the  convention  of 
the  Loyal  League  in  Sanitown  on  the  26th  of  No¬ 
vember,  and  as  he  expected  to  “make”  that  city 
at  about  that  time,  she  would  like  to  have  him  go 
and  hear  him. 

“He  is  fine,  George,”  she  added.  “He  spoke 
in  our  church  a  few  months  ago,  and  I  can  never 
forget  him.  He  is  a  man  of  deep  spirituality,  with 
just  enough  wit  and  humor  to  relieve  the  tension. 
Try  to  hear  him,  at  all  events.” 

That  was  the  main  reason  for  his  presence. 
There  were  other  reasons.  He  was  fond  of  wit 
and  humor.  To  be  sure,  he  no  longer  made  a  col¬ 
lection  of  “good”  stories;  he  was  sick  of  them; 
but  he  still  liked  a  fine  joke.  And  that  was  not  all. 
“A  man  of  deep  spirituality.”  Some  people  seem 
to  think  a  drummer  doesn’t  care  for  such  a  thing, 
that  he  just  wants  to  be  gay. 

He  muttered  something  to  himself  to  express 
his  opinion  of  such  inadequate  estimates.  Just  one 
word.  It  was  not  at  all  to  the  point;  in  fact,  it 
was  senseless.  But  it  was  the  name  of  a  very 
definite  theological  locality. 

At  any  rate,  he  was  here  and  he  had  come  to 
hear  Dr.  Manville.  His  train  would  not  leave 
until  half  past  ten,  and  if  he  left  the  meeting  at 
ten  oclock,  he  would  be  able  to  “make”  it,  espe¬ 
cially  as  he  was  staying  at  the  Howard  House, 


THE  DISAPPOINTMENT 


77 


which  was  close  to  the  station.  So  he  settled  down 
for  a  treat. 

The  meeting  was  to  have  begun  at  eight 
o’clock,  but  it  was  fifteen  minutes  later  when  the 
leader  faced  the  congregation  with  a  broad  smile 
and  said  they  would  have  a  season  of  song  as  the 
people  seemed  to  be  slow  in  coming.  The  singing 
was  lusty,  and  the  people  came. 

At  half  past  eight  the  leader  rose  to  introduce 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Catte,  who  was  scheduled  to  conduct 
the  devotional  exercises.  The  name  gave  the 
chairman  an  excellent  opportunity  to  tell  a  few 
good  stories  of  the  diminutive  feline,  which  were 
received  with  mirthful  applause,  and  Mr.  Catte 
replied  in  kind.  It  was  twenty  minutes  of  nine 
when  the  devotions  began.  They  were  impressive 
and  prepared  the  drummer  for  Dr.  Manville. 

Then  the  leader  rose,  winked  and  smiled,  and 
introduced  the  convention  treasurer.  Some  of 
the  girls  giggled,  and  a  number  of  persons  fum¬ 
bled  for  their  purses. 

The  treasurer  was  famously  facetious,  and 
he  lived  up  to  his  reputation.  The  drummer  was, 
of  course,  glad  to  make  his  contribution,  but  he 
glanced  at  his  watch.  The  collection  being  over, 
he  looked  up  expectantly. 

The  chairman  smiled  again,  and  congratu¬ 
lated  the  convention  on  having  with  it  that  eve- 


78 


THE  DISAPPOINTMENT 


ning  the  Honorable  John  Moulton  Smith,  ex¬ 
governor  of  a  neighboring  state,  and  he  was  sure 
the  audience  would  be  pleased  to  hear  from  him. 
The  secretary  clapped  his  hands,  and  the  conven¬ 
tion  echoed  a  rousing  applause.  Governor  Smith 
was  a  distinguished  looking  man,  a  man  of  prom¬ 
inence,  especially  as  to  nose  and  voice. 

He  began  by  apologizing  for  the  cold  in  his 
head,  adding  that  a  susceptibility  to  colds  had  been 
a  weakness  in  his  family  for  generations,  but  that 
it  had  never  affected  the  temperature  of  the  heart. 
(Applause.)  Then  he  expressed  his  delight  with 
being  permitted  to  address  so  happy  and  hand¬ 
some  an  assembly,  which  statement  evoked  a  re¬ 
sponse  of  gratification.  After  that  he  launched 
out  upon  the  subject  of  his  address:  Thrift 
Stamps.  If  he  was  as  generous  in  investing  his 
money  in  Stamps  as  he  was  in  giving  time  to  the 
audience,  he  was  certainly  a  paragon  of  patriot¬ 
ism,  and  the  leader  did  not  have  the  heart  to  stop 
an  ex-governor. 

It  was  half  past  nine  when  he  got  through. 
Then  followed  a  hymn.  After  that,  the  presiding 
officer  announced  that  his  keen  eye  had  detected 
an  old  friend  of  the  cause  in  the  audience,  Joseph 
O’Leary,  and  he  felt  the  evening  would  not  be 
complete  without  a  word  from  Joe. 

So  Joe  came  to  the  platform  and  held  forth. 


THE  DISAPPOINTMENT 


79 


He  was  utterly  unprepared,  and  for  a  while  he 
floundered.  Then  he  happened  to  think  of  his  ex¬ 
periences  in  the  trenches,  and  the  tickling  rill  of 
his  oratory  became  a  wide  stream.  The  leader 
called  his  attention  to  the  fact  that  his  time  was 
up,  but  Joe  replied  that  for  a  full  year,  in  the 
army,  he  had  to  obey,  and  that  he  made  up  his 
mind,  once  out  of  service,  he  would  not  take  orders 
from  anybody  for  another  full  year.  This  retort 
pleased  the  audience  immensely,  and  the  chair 
was  defeated. 

Joe,  however,  was  considerate,  and  stopped  at 
ten  minutes  of  ten. 

The  drummer  looked  for  his  hat  and  over¬ 
coat.  As  he  went  up  the  aisle,  the  congregation 
sang  two  verses  of  “On  to  Victory.”  He  paused 
near  the  door  long  enough  to  hear  the  introduc¬ 
tion  of  Dr.  Manville.  More  than  that.  Although 
it  was  a  few  minutes  after  ten,  he  lingered.  Too 
bad !  What  he  saw  and  heard,  was  just  enough  to 
whet  his  heart  hunger.  He  wished  he  could  stay, 
but  he  had  to  “make”  the  train. 


WHEN  HE 

OMITTED  SHADRACH'S  ORATION 


HE  Rev.  John  Bell  was  at  work  in  his 
study,  preparing  a  sermon.  He  was  a 
young  man,  with  a  young  man’s  opti¬ 
mism,  and  a  confidence  that  bordered  on 
conceit.  Would  he  make  a  success  of  this 
church?  He  had  no  doubt  of  it.  Had  he  not 
drawn  encouraging  audiences  almost  every  Sun¬ 
day  since  his  arrival  at  Marston?  And  that  was 
three  months  ago.  To  be  sure,  he  lately  had  felt 
the  prick  of  disappointment  once  or  twice.  But 
his  enthusiasm  had  not  yet  been  chilled.  And  the 
sermon  he  was  finishing  would  certainly  make  a 
great  impression. 

“I  think  this  ought  to  make  a  hit,”  he  mused, 
lapsing  into  the  vernacular.  “The  story  of  the 
three  men  in  the  fiery  furnace  is  full  of  the  dra¬ 
matic.” 


[80] 


OMITTED  SHADRACH’S  ORATION  81 


He  read  aloud  his  version  of  the  dialogue  be¬ 
tween  the  young  Hebrews  and  Nebuchadnezzar. 
He  had  liberally  amended  the  Bible  record.  Why 
not?  Is  there  not  homiletic  license  as  well  as 
poetic  license?  When  he  reached  the  final  defiance 
of  the  Hebrews  to  the  king’s  command,  he  put  into 
the  mouth  of  Shadrach  an  oration  which  savored 
of  Burke  and  Patrick  Henry.  Nor  was  he  satis¬ 
fied  merely  reading  this  to  himself.  He  rose  to  the 
occasion,  halted  before  a  man-size  mirror,  and 
tried  the  doubtful  experiment  of  studying  his 
oratorical  fervor  with  calm  and  careful  criticism. 

He  was  satisfied  with  himself.  Turning  from 
the  mirror  he  faced  an  imaginary  audience  crowd¬ 
ing  his  little  church.  And  let  it  be  credited  to  the 
creative  faculty  of  the  brother  that  he  was  as  satis¬ 
fied  with  his  imaginary  audience  as  his  imaginary 
audience  was  satisfied  with  him. 

He  was  so  enthusiastic  that  he  gave  an  out¬ 
line  of  his  sermon  to  Deacon  McKnight,  whom  he 
met  on  the  street. 

“Fine,”  ejaculated  the  deacon.  “Wish  I  could 
be  there  to  hear  it.” 

“You’ll  not  be  there?” 

“No;  I’m  sorry  to  say.  My  wife’s  folks  are 
going  to  spend  the  week  end  with  us,  and  it  will 
be  hard  for  me  to  get  away.  By  the  way,  did  you 
see  Benson’s  new  car?  He’ll  be  a  speeder  before 


82  OMITTED  SHADRACH’S  ORATION 


long.”  Falling  back  upon  Benson's  car  was  not 
retreat  but  strategy. 

John  Bell  was  not  much  disturbed  by  the  an¬ 
nounced  absence  of  his  substantial  deacon.  He 
would  like  to  have  him  present,  to  be  sure,  but  one 
man  could  well  be  missed.  He  was  so  elated  over 
the  prospective  hit  that  he  was  hardly  aware  of 
the  beautiful  spring  weather  that  set  in  toward 
the  end  of  the  week.  And  thus  dawned  a  glorious 
Sunday.  The  evening  before  he  had  once  more 
gone  over  his  sermon,  and  during  the  night  he 
had  dreamed  of  Nebuchadnezzar,  whom  he  had 
seen  very  distinctly,  though  with  some  occidental 
admixtures. 

Alas,  alas !  The  church  was  not  filled  to  suf¬ 
focation.  The  service  was  not  even  well  attended. 
It  was  no  distraction  for  the  minister  to  count 
his  audience.  There  were  thirteen  hearers  pres¬ 
ent  and  some  of  them  were  not  hearers  through¬ 
out  the  entire  discourse.  His  delivery  was  spirit¬ 
less,  and  Shadrach’s  speech  of  defiance  was 
omitted.  He  was  not  disconcerted  by  the  number 
thirteen.  One  less  would  have  made  him  feel  just 
as  bad.  How  can  a  man  deliver  to  empty  benches 
a  sermon  he  has  prepared  for  an  expectant  au¬ 
dience  filling  the  church? 

“Where  are  the  people?”  he  asked  after  he 
had  agonized  through  the  service. 


OMITTED  SHADRACH’S  ORATION  83 


“Oh,  they  are  out  in  their  machines,  or  play¬ 
ing  tennis,  or  entertaining  friends.  Never  mind. 
You’ll  get  used  to  that  all  right.  They  did  the 
same  thing  to  your  predecessor.  The  first 
few  months  they  came  out  of  curiosity,  but  the 
attendance  soon  settled  down  to  ‘normal.’  Our 
folks  aren’t  stingy  in  their  contributions,  but 
they’re  not  strong  on  going  to  church.  But  you’ll 
get  used  to  that  all  right.” 

And  he  did  get  used  to  it.  Let  it  be  admitted 
with  shame,  he  did  get  used  to  it.  At  first,  his 
heart  rebelled,  but  by  and  by,  slowly,  impercepti¬ 
bly,  there  stole  into  his  soul  the  deadly  spirit 
of  “What’s  the  use?”  His  sermons  were  prepared 
with  ever  less  thought.  Who  cared?  He  became 
known  as  the  most  genial  clergyman  in  town.  A 
common  saying  had  it  that  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bell  was 
idolized  by  his  people,  but  that  they  seldom  went 
to  church. 


THE  CURE 


R.  Mortimer  Mindfull  had  a  theory  that 
he  could  not  sleep,  and  theories  are  stub¬ 
born  things.  It  made  him  feel  very  bad. 
For  one  thing,  his  reputation  was  at 
stake.  Until  about  a  month  ago,  he  had 
been  an  excellent  sleeper,  and  his  wife,  with  fine 
sarcasm,  entirely  and  solely  actuated  by  her  love 
for  him,  as  she  averred,  had  often  advised  him  to 
enter  a  Marathon  sleeping  race,  predicting  easily 
won  laurels,  unless  the  judges  insisted  upon  noise¬ 
less  engines. 

Besides,  he  realized  the  insomnia  would  un¬ 
dermine  his  health.  The  cause  of  the  deplorable 
condition,  which  preyed  upon  his  mind,  had  not 
yet  been  ascertained,  although  several  experts 
were  working  on  the  case.  One  said  coffee;  an¬ 
other,  after  exhaustive  interrogations  going  back 
about  six  generations,  was  sure  it  was  the  after- 

[84] 


THE  CURE 


85 


effect  of  bibulous  indulgences  of  an  ancestor.  Let 
it  be  said,  however,  that  they  did  not  spend  too 
much  time  on  the  investigation  of  possible  causes ; 
rather  did  they  proceed  vigorously  to  experiment 
with  probable  remedies. 

The  tonics  and  nerve  exercises,  the  latter  very 
taxing,  such  as  describing  circles  and  semi-circles 
with  the  index  finger  without  a  jerky  movement, 
had  so  far  been  of  no  apparently  beneficial  effect, 
mainly  because  Mr.  Mindfull  was  impervious  to 
suggestion.  His  wife  would  assure  him  that  he 
had  slept,  but  he  always  triumphed  by  affirming 
he  was  positive  she  had  been  sleeping  the  whole 
night  through. 

“How  could  I  know  that  if  I  had  slept?  I 
tell  you  I  didn’t  sleep.” 

And  she  was  quiet.  That  was  victory  for 
him,  to  be  sure ;  but  his  song  of  triumph,  sung  to 
a  tune  of  his  own,  always  ended  in  a  minor  key, 
to  the  words:  “I  know  I  have  not  slept  for  a 
month.” 

One  night,  he  heard  a  voice  calling  him,  about 
two  thousand  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  miles 
away.  He  listened;  he  listened  intently.  Was 
this  one  of  the  mysterious  messages  from  Mars 
he  had  been  reading  about,  or  was  there  something 
in  spiritism  after  all  ? 

The  voice  spake  again.  It  was  calling  him. 


86 


THE  CURE 


Now  it  seemed  much  nearer.  He  strained  his 
ear.  Then  he  heard  it  again.  He  started  from 
his  pillow,  for  this  time  it  was  close  to  him. 

“For  goodness’  sake,  didn’t  you  hear  that 
door-bell?”  It  was  not  a  spirit;  or  rather,  it  was 
a  spirit  that  was  very  dear  to  him. 

“Door-bell !”  he  echoed,  in  a  very  unspiritual 
way,  though  nevertheless  spiritedly.  “What  are 
you  talking  about?  I  ought  to  have  heard  it.  You 
know  I  don’t  sleep.” 

“Well,  it  did  ring.  Get  up  and  see  who  is 
there !” 

“Now,  my  dear — ” 

He  was  going  to  say  a  good  deal  more,  and 
the  “dear”  was  like  the  icing  on  devil  cake,  but 
just  at  that  moment  the  door  bell  gave  forth  a 
clear,  sharp  call  to  duty. 

Mr.  Mindfull  ejaculated  something  that 
drowned  the  “I  told  you  so”  of  his  wife.  This 
was  very  unchi valrous,  for  what  will  become  of 
the  human  race  if  man  becomes  so  coarse  as  not 
to  bow  in  dignified  acquiescence  to  woman’s  “I 
told  you  so.” 

At  any  rate  he  slipped  into  his  slippers, 
hastily  donned  Mrs.  Mindfull’s  dressing  gown,  and 
descended  the  stairs.  We  had  better  say  he  stum¬ 
bled  down  the  stairs,  for  he  had  a  hard  time  keep¬ 
ing  the  hem  of  his  garment  above  his  ankle  and 


THE  CURE 


87 


the  sleeves  from  reaching  out  beyond  his  hands. 
The  gown  completely  enveloped  his  body,  and  the 
mesenger  boy  was  reminded  of  some  of  the  pic¬ 
tures  he  had  seen  in  a  History  of  Rome. 

The  telegram  was  important,  but  not  enough 
to  throw  Mr.  Mindfull  into  hysterics.  Even  his 
poor,  tantalized  nerves  stood  the  test.  In  fact, 
after  he  had  turned  it  over  to  his  superior  who 
claimed  she  had  a  right  to  know,  his  thoughts  re¬ 
verted  to  the  insomnia  problem. 

He  certainly  must  have  been  asleep.  Mrs. 
Mindfull’s  contention  had  been  confirmed  by  the 
statement  of  the  messenger  that  he  had  rung  the 
bell  twice. 

Now  what  had  he  been  doing  when  the  bell 
rang  the  first  time  ?  He  must  have  been  sleeping. 
He  could  not  deny  it.  And  yet  he  had  been  sure  of 
not  having  slept  for  a  month.  And  if  he  had  been 
mistaken  in  this  instance,  why  not  in  others?  It 
was  quite  possible  that  he  had  been  sleeping  more 
than  he  thought  he  had.  That  certainly  was  com¬ 
forting.  His  health  was  not  as  bad  as  he  thought 
it  had  been.  In  fact,  he  felt  better.  His  condition 
seemed  to  be  much  more  hopeful.  The  obsession 
of  a  month  felt  the  expulsive  power  of  a  new 
conviction.  Something  seemed  to  dissolve  in  Mr. 
Mindfull’s  brain ;  something  seemed  to  relax. 
Then  again  there  was  a  fusing.  He  was  conscious 


88 


THE  CURE 


of  levitation.  He  was  being  wafted  through  a  mil¬ 
lion  or  more  miles  of  purest  ether.  It  all  lasted 
just  a  minute  or  two  when  a  voice  brought  him 
back  to  the  realities  of  blankets  and  pillows. 

“For  goodness’  sake,  stop  your  snoring.  It’s 
time  to  get  up,  anyhow,  and  look  after  the  fur¬ 
nace.” 

He  opened  his  eyes,  blinked,  and  saw  it  was 
daylight. 

He  knew  he  was  cured. 


GOING  HOME 


certain  man  had  a  large  family.  And 
he  had  said  to  his  son,  “You  see  there 
are  too  many  of  us.  You  are  strong  and 
bright,  and  the  world  is  full  of  oppor¬ 
tunities.” 

And  not  many  days  after  the  son  left  his 
home.  He  traveled  many  miles,  and  found  a  posi¬ 
tion  in  a  distant  city. 

He  worked  hard,  and  became  wealthy. 

When,  after  fifteen  years  of  incessant  toil,  he 
took  a  vacation,  he  heard  the  cow-bells  in  the 
meadow,  and  he  longed  for  the  old  home. 

He  said  to  himself,  “I’m  going  home.” 

Then  he  thought  of  the  riches,  and  he  added, 
“And  I  am  going  to  dazzle  them  with  my  wealth.” 

And  he  journeyed  home  in  a  fine  limousine, 
enjoying  all  the  comforts  that  money  can  buy. 

But  when  they  left  the  state-road,  and  he  saw 

[89] 


90 


GOING  HOME 


an  old  chimney  rise  above  the  brow  of  the  hill,  he 
said  to  the  chauffeur,  “James,  you  stay  here  with 
the  car.  I  am  going  to  walk  home.” 

He  took  off  his  coat,  and  he  did  not  mind  the 
dust  of  the  road.  He  would  fain  have  bathed  his 
feet  in  the  brook  and  walk  home  barefoot. 

He  felt  like  crying,  “Father,  mother,  I  don’t 
want  to  come  back  to  you  as  the  wealthy  man;  I 
want  to  come  back  to  you  as  your  boy.” 

When  he  reached  home,  his  brother  did  not 
recognize  him;  but  the  mother  rushed  out  of  the 
kitchen  and  called  him  by  a  pet  name  of  his  child¬ 
hood,  which  he  had  forgotten.  He  dropped  his  hat 
and  his  coat  to  rest  in  her  arms.  And  the  father 
came  out  of  the  barn,  and  his  heart  was  in  his 
hand. 

It  was  long  before  he  remembered  James. 

Likewise  we  want  to  forget  the  daubles  of  life 
when  we  approach  the  Father,  and  just  be  His 
child. 


A  YOUTHFUL  FANCY 


HE  rich  young  ruler  had  grown  old.  He 
still  had  great  possessions;  more  than 
ever.  He  was  resting  on  the  roof  of  his 
country  home,  in  the  shade  of  a  curtain 
of  rare  design.  He  was  charmed  with  the 
view  of  fields  and  groves  and  mountains,  and  the 
blue  waves  of  the  sea.  So  were  the  servants,  but 
they  did  not  dare  to  take  their  eyes  off  the  master. 

A  messenger  arrived  and  salaamed  low. 

“Jehovah  is  good,  my  master,”  he  exclaimed. 
“Thy  ships  have  reached  the  harbor  of  Joppa,  and 
all  is  well.” 

And  while  he  was  yet  speaking,  there  came 
also  another. 

“Jehovah  is  with  thee,”  he  greeted.  “Thy 
caravan  was  attacked  by  Arabians,  but  thy  men 
beat  them  off,  and  only  Nahum  was  slain.  The 
spices  are  safe,  and  not  a  camel  was  lost.” 

[91] 


92 


A  YOUTHFUL  FANCY 


And  while  he  was  yet  speaking,  there  came 
also  another,  a  craftsman,  bearing  a  parchment 
roll.  He  bowed  humbly. 

'Thy  palace  on  Mt.  Carmel  is  almost  finished. 
The  storm  that  uprooted  trees  in  the  park  left  no 
mark  on  the  marble.  The  house  is  built  on  a 
rock.” 

"House  built  on  a  rock?  Where  have  I  heard 
that  before?”  The  eyes  of  the  rich  man  became 
dreamy,  but  not  for  long.  Even  while  he  re¬ 
flected  another  messenger  arrived.  He  bowed 
with  courtly  grace. 

"Hail  to  thee,  master.  Good  news.  Nero  has 
heard  of  thee.  Thou  wilt  hear  from  him.” 

"What  other  news  from  Rome,  Philip?” 

"They  are  persecuting  the  Christians.” 

"The  Christians?”  With  a  gesture  he  dis¬ 
missed  the  messengers.  "The  Christians.”  His 
lips  scarcely  articulated  the  word.  But  there  came 
with  it  a  misty  recollection  of  a  prophet  of  Na¬ 
zareth,  whom  he  had  once  asked:  "What  shall  I 
do  to  inherit  eternal  life?” 

He  smiled.  "A  youthful  fancy.” 

And  his  mind  reverted  to  the  obsession  of 
ships  and  caravans,  and  palaces,  and  Rome. 


HE  FELT  THE  STARS  LOOKING 

AT  HIM 

HE  Rev.  James  Murgatroyed  rose  on  tip¬ 
toe  and  looked  for  his  friend,  the  Rev. 
Thomas  Spencer.  He  had  seen  him  come 
into  the  minister’s  Monday  conference 
and  had  recognized  him  at  once,  though 
they  had  seen  very  little  of  each  other  since  their 
college  days  in  Wooster. 

Now  that  the  meeting  was  over  and  the  clos^ 
ing  hymn  was  followed  by  the  hubbub  of  a  hundred 
trained  voices  greeting  one  another  in  pulpit 
tones,  he  looked  for  Tom.  Ordinarily  he  would  not 
have  to  rise  on  tip-toe,  for  he  was  a  tall  man; 
but  Tom  was  a  little  fellow,  and  he  was  bound 
not  to  miss  him. 

“There’s  a  fine  little  coffee  parlor  on  Broad¬ 
way,  not  far  from  here,”  Jim  suggested  after  the 
first  ecstasies  were  over. 


[93] 


94 


FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 


Tom  agreed,  moreover,  as  he  would  not  dare 
to  interfere  with  the  arrangements  of  those  of  his 
brethren  who  were  evidently  born  to  lead.  Say¬ 
ing  this,  he  drew  twelve  cents  from  his  vest  pocket 
and  glanced  meaningly  up  at  his  friend’s  athletic 
height. 

Mr.  Murgatroyed  deprecated  with  one  hand 
and  drew  Mr.  Spencer  out  of  the  crowd  with  the 
other. 

When  they  faced  each  other  over  the  linen 
that  shimmered  bluishly  in  the  softened  light, 
Tom  began  the  story  of  his  life,  not,  however  with 
absolute  fidelity  to  histone  consecutiveness.  In 
fact,  it  was  haphazard,  now  about  his  revered  an¬ 
cestor  who  had  come  over  in  the  Mayflower,  and 
now  about  his  eldest  boy,  a  prodigy.  But  the  de¬ 
sultoriness  of  the  recital  did  not  interfere  with 
the  continuity  of  the  flow. 

“Hold  on  a  minute,”  Jim  interrupted  as  the 
waiter  brought  the  coffee.  “I  want  to  tell  you 
something  about  myself.  I  may  make  a  change.” 

“Where  to?” 

“South  Lebanon,  Pennsylvania.” 

“South  Lebanon?  A  suburb  of  Lebanon; 
isn’t  it?  On  a  spur  of  the  Pennsylvania.  Am  I 
right?” 

“That’s  it.” 


FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 


95 


“I  know  that  church.  I  was  there  at  one  time 
when  McPherson  was  the  minister.” 

“McPherson?  I  never  heard  of  him.” 

“Oh,  that’s  about  ten  years  ago.” 

“Oh!” 

“I  can  give  you  a  few  pointers  on  that  church. 
You  know  the  churches  in  that  neighborhood 
don’t  change  very  much.” 

“I  know,  the  elder,  Dr.  Bruce,  wrote  it  was  a 
church  of  established  character.” 

“Bruce?  Bruce?  No,  that’s  not  his  name. 
I’m  thinking  of  an  old  elder  I  met  there.  Let’s 
see.  What  was  his  name?  I  remember  him  well 
now.  Face  like  granite  and  eyebrows  like  bushes. 
What  was  his  name?  I  have  it.  Burns.  That’s 
it.  I  remember  him  well.  He’s  very  proud  of 
being  a  descendant  of  John  Knox.” 

“Is  that  so?”  Murgatroyed  returned  the 
cup  to  the  saucer,  and  while  his  guest  began  to 
dissect  and  deposit  a  delicious  piece  of  cake,  he 
wrote  on  a  slip  of  paper  that  Burns  was  a  descen¬ 
dant  of  John  Knox. 

“What  else  do  you  know  of  the  church?” 

“Oh,  I  remember  it  very  well.  They  have  a 
lot  of  Dutch  people  in  it.  Fine  folks  they  are. 
Steady  as  the  needle.  They’re  slow  in  loving  a 


96 


FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 


newcomer,  but  if  they  once  love  him,  they’ll  love 
him  for  good.” 

“Go  on.  What  else?”  Murgatroyed  made  an¬ 
other  note. 

“There’s  one  man  there — good  man,  too — 
he’s  developed  a  strange  fondness  for  the  Old  Tes¬ 
tament  Apocrypha.  You’d  better  read  up  on  Mac¬ 
cabees  and  so  forth.” 

Murgatroyed  made  a  few  hieroglyphic  dashes. 

“Anything  else?” 

“I  can’t  think  of  anything  just  now.  Just 
that  they’re  fine  people.  Some  of  them  country 
gentlemen  who  like  to  hear  about  metropolitan 
life.” 

They  talked  on  for  a  half  hour,  after  which 
Tom  plead  an  engagement.  He  would,  however, 
be  anxious  to  await  Jim’s  verdict  on  the  congre¬ 
gation  as  well  as  the  congregation’s  verdict.  He 
was  on  his  vacation,  which  he  always  took  in  Oc¬ 
tober,  and  would  stay  in  New  York  for  a  few 
weeks. 

When  Murgatroyed  was  back  in  his  study  in 
Newark,  he  took  the  history  of  Scotland  from 
the  shelf  and  began  to  read  the  account  of  the 
struggle  between  John  Knox  and  Mary  Stuart. 
Hastily  he  jotted  down  his  impressions,  his  imag¬ 
ination  creating  a  South  Lebanon  audience  with 


FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 


97 


Mr.  Burns  as  the  central  figure.  Under  such  his¬ 
toric  stimulus  as  was  furnished  by  the  scene  be¬ 
tween  the  Elijah  of  the  North  and  the  beautiful 
queen,  the  sentences  rolled  off  his  fountain  pen 
to  his  own  evident  satisfaction. 

“That  isn’t  bad,”  he  complimented  himself 
after  he  had  read  it  aloud.  “But  I  think  I’ll  add  a 
few  lines  from  The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night.  That 
ought  to  impress  the  old  elder.” 

“And  now  something  to  please  the  Dutch.” 
He  turned  his  revolving  book-case  for  a  volume 
of  Motley’s  History  of  the  United  Netherlands. 
After  browsing  for  a  while,  his  eyes  chanced  upon 
the  name  of  William  of  Orange. 

“The  very  character,”  he  smiled  to  himself. 
He  read  the  account  of  the  siege  of  Leyden,  and 
the  heroism  of  William  the  Silent  made  him  feel 
volubly  rhetorical.  His  pen  raced  over  five  pages. 
The  flow  of  ink  being  occasionally  impeded  by 
some  temporary  defect,  the  little  outbursts  of 
temper  as  he  ejected  spouts  of  ink  on  the  carpet, 
which  fortunately  was  a  linoleum,  helped  to  set 
his  words  afire  with  temperament. 

He  sighed  as  he  reviewed. 

“That’s  kind  o’  fine,”  was  his  self-felicitation. 

He  then  consulted  the  Apocrypha.  For  a 
while  he  was  undecided  as  to  whether  to  use  the 


98 


FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 


heroism  of  Judas  Maccabeus  driving  the  Syrian 
host  to  cover  in  five  successive  victories  or  the 
truculent  bravery  of  Judith  slaying  Holoferness; 
but,  after  standing  at  the  window  for  a  minute 
and  vainly  looking  for  an  oracle  from  the  scud 
of  the  sky,  or  the  passersby  scanning  the  clouds 
and  buttoning  their  coats,  or  the  jangling  street 
car,  he  finally  decided  on  Judas  as  most  compatible 
with  the  tenor  of  his  other  illustrations. 

“And  now  for  a  bit  of  Metropolitan  life,”  he 
mused.  “Well,  I  can  think  of  nothing  better  than 
that  parade  when  the  Sixty-ninth  came  home. 
First  the  furled  flag  and  the  slow  beat  of  drums. 
Then  the  wounded,  and  at  last  the  endless  rows  of 
Young  America  passing  under  the  Victory  Arch. 
I  am  sure  they  did  not  see  anything  like  that  in 
Lebanon.” 

He  left  the  desk  and  dropped  into  the  Morris 
chair,  where  he  closed  his  eyes  and  endeavored 
to  fuse  John  Knox  and  William  of  Orange,  and 
Judas  Maccabeus  and  the  Victory  Arch  into  a 
composite  harmony  when  suddenly  he  jerked  up 
with  a  start. 

“Why  I  haven’t  chosen  my  text  yet.” 

Some  ministers  there  are,  to  be  sure,  who 
are  so  audacious  as  to  preach  without  a  text,  but 
Murgatroyed  was  conservative  enough  to  eschew 
such  ultra-modern  escapades.  Besides,  he  was  to 


FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 


99 


preach  a  trial  sermon,  and  in  that  case  one  had 
better  not  deviate  too  much  from  established  cus¬ 
tom.  So  he  hunted  for  and  finally  succeeded  in 
finding  a  text  that  was  sufficiently  comprehensive 
and  elastic  to  admit  of  the  use  of  all  of  his  stra¬ 
tegic  illustrations. 

He  had  expected  to  leave  on  Friday,  but  a 
funeral  service  detained  him,  so  that  he  did  not 
start  until  Saturday  morning,  and  the  change  of 
trains  at  Harrisburg  caused  a  delay  of  several 
hours.  However,  the  trip  was  delightful,  and  his 
mind  alternated  between  noting  the  beauties  of 
the  scenery  and  allowing  his  thoughts  to  drift  into 
random  but  fine  dreaming,  which,  also,  was  a 
preparation  for  the  morrow’s  work. 

It  was  dark  when  he  arrived.  Dr.  Bruce,  his 
host,  had  received  the  telegram  and  met  Mr.  Mur- 
gatroyed  at  the  station.  The  pleasure  was  mutual, 
and  the  Franklin  car — which  was  new,  for  the 
doctor  had  recently  married — soon  brought  them 
to  the  cottage  whose  chimney  waved  the  smoke 
plume  of  welcome  at  the  minister. 

He  had  little  opportunity  to  draw  information 
from  his  host,  for  the  doctor  had  to  excuse  him¬ 
self  several  times  to  attend  to  patients.  Besides, 
the  trip  had  made  him  tired  and  he  longed  to  go 
to  bed. 

From  the  window  of  his  bed-room  he  saw  a 


100  FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 


lane  of  cottages,  and  at  the  end  of  it  a  church 
whose  spire  was  outtowered  by  the  mountains  in 
the  distance.  Here  and  there  lights  were  blind-'" 
ing  through  the  trees  on  the  hillside,  and  he  felt 
the  stars  looking  at  him.  Nature  seemed  to  have 
pressed  her  finger  to  her  lips,  saying  to  the 
stranger :  “Be  still,  and  know.”  He  forgot  about 
Scotland  and  Holland  and  the  Macabees.  Rather 
did  he  have  a  touch  of  the  mystic  feeling  of  them 
that  gained  all  by  yielding  all. 

In  the  morning,  however,  he  awoke  to  the 
necessities  of  the  campaign.  At  the  breakfast,  he 
adroitly,  as  if  casually,  questioned  Mrs.  Bruce,  a 
young  woman  of  promising  proportions  and  will¬ 
ing  confidences. 

“I  understand,  Mrs.  Bruce,  quite  a  number 
of  your  members  are  of  Dutch  descent;  I  mean 
Hollanders.”  Thus  he  began  to  find  his  range. 

“Why,  no;  not  many,”  his  hostess  answered 
musically.  “There’s  the  Van  Steens,  the  Hornes, 
and  the  Arembergs.  Nice  people.  The  Van 
Steens  will  come  to  church  in  their  new  automo¬ 
bile,  I  guess.  Mr.  Van  Steen  is  in  the  real  estate 
and  lumber  business,  and  the  doctor  tells  me  he 
has  mining  interests.  Now,  the  Arembergs.”  She 
stopped,  for  the  minister  had  stopped  eating  and 
stared  at  her. 


FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM  101 


“Will  you  have  another  cup  of  coffee,  Doc¬ 
tor?”  she  asked  solicitously. 

“No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Bruce,”  he  replied  with 
less  color  in  his  voice.  “But  tell  me,  is  Mr.  Burns, 
the  old  elder,  still  living?  A  friend  of  mine  told 
me  about  him.” 

“Mr.  Burns?”  She  shook  her  head.  “There 
is  a  Mr.  Burns  here,  but  he  is  just  a  recent  arri¬ 
val.  He’s  working  for  the  Standard  Oil  Company. 
Very  pleasant  man  to  meet,  and  an  elegant 
dresser.  But  he  is  a  young  man.” 

Murgatroyed  wiped  his  forehead  with  his 
napkin. 

“No;  that  can’t  be  the  Mr.  Burns  my  friend 
referred  to.  He  must  be  an  old  man  now,  and  he 
is  very  proud  of  being  a  descendant  of  John 
Knox.” 

Mrs.  Bruce  laughed.  Such  a  melodious  laugh. 

“Now  I  understand.  That’s  Mr.  Jonathan 
Burns  of  the  East  Lebanon  church.  Ours  is  the 
South  Lebanon  church,  you  know.  Your  friend 
must  have  confused  the  two  churches.  Yes,  I 
know  Mr.  Burns.  Everybody  within  six  miles 
around  here  knows  Mr.  Burns.  I  know  him  well 
because  the  East  Lebanon  church  was  my  church 
before  I  was  married.  It's  a  good  church,  too. 
And  Mr.  Burns  is  a  fine  man.  He  wants  to  have 


102  FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 


his  own  way,  that’s  true,  but  it’s  usually  a  good 
way. 

“If  you  can  stay  here  a  few  days  you  are  likely 
to  meet  him.  And  maybe  you  will  meet  Mr. 
Greer,  the  Sunday  school  superintendent  of  East 
Lebanon.  We  all  liked  him,  although  we  used  to 
giggle  when  in  his  funny  way  he  would  tell  us  by 
all  means  to  read  the  Apocrypha.” 

The  doctor  entered. 

“Mr.  Murgatroyed,”  he  interrupted,  “I  don’t 
want  to  hurry  you.  But  if  you  would  like  to  say  a 
word  to  the  Sunday  school  before  the  church  serv¬ 
ice,  I  think  we  shall  have  to  get  ready  to  go.” 

“Certainly,”  the  minister  answered,  like  one 
in  a  daze. 

Excusing  himself,  he  went  up  to  his  room.  He 
closed  the  door  and  dropped  into  a  chair.  There 
he  sat  for  fully  five  minutes  and  stared  at  the 
washbowl,  or  rather  through  the  washbowl  to 
something  far  away.  Slowly  he  took  the  sermon 
from  the  pocket  of  his  Prince  Albert  coat,  glanced 
at  a  few  pages,  and  then  deposited  the  carefully 
prepared  manuscript  in  his  suit  case. 

But  why  not  preach  the  sermon?  What  if 
the  Scotch  heir  to  greatness  was  not  there?  What 
if  the  Dutch  were  in  a  small  minority?  What  if 
the  church  was  different  from  what  he  had  been 


FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM  IDS 


led  to  presume?  Did  not  those  illustrations  ad¬ 
mit  of  cosmopolitan  application?  Up  and  doing! 

No;  he  could  not.  The  disappointment  had 
torn  something  from  his  eyes.  He  was  disgusted 
with  the  worldly  strategy  in  writing  the  sermon. 
A  voice  within,  to  be  sure,  reminding  him  that 
even  ministers  may  be  wise  as  serpents,  and  to 
please  all  men  in  all  things  that  they  may  be  saved 
had  a  noble  precedent ;  but  he  shook  his  head.  He 
felt  the  stars  looking  at  him  again. 

He  rose,  donned  his  coat,  and  after  an  inad- 
vertant  glance  at  the  mirror,  descended  the  stairs. 

The  children  in  the  Sunday  school  he  told  the 
incident  of  a  little  girl,  poorly  clad,  who  had 
looked  wistfully  up  at  the  train  when  it  stopped 
for  a  few  minutes  near  a  hamlet.  Somebody  took 
an  interest  in  her  and  handed  her  an  apple  out  of 
the  window.  She  stammered  thanks  and  then 
asked  her  benefactor  to  please  cut  it  in  two  so 
as  to  enable  her  to  share  it  with  a  companion  who 
looked  just  as  ill-fed. 

He  wondered  what  he  would  preach  about. 
He  knew  he  could  not  deliver  the  sermon  he  had 
prepared.  He  knew  he  was  above  it.  That  was 
not  his  message;  certainly  not  for  today.  But 
what  would  he  say? 

As  the  organist  played  the  prelude,  a  text 


104  FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 


flashed  through  his  mind  which  years  ago  had  be¬ 
come  one  of  the  anchor  passages  of  his  life :  “The 
Son  of  God  who  loved  me  and  gave  himself  for 
me.”  It  was  surprising  how  quickly  the  skeleton 
was  formed  and  how  rapidly  it  was  covered  with 
living  flesh.  He  preached  on  the  beauty  of  sacri¬ 
fice.  He  began  with  the  Victory  Arch  and  the  re¬ 
turned  soldiers  marching  under  it.  He  spoke  of 
the  thousands  who  had  laid  down  their  lives,  of 
the  cross  bearers  of  all  ages,  of  Livingstone’s  heart 
buried  in  Africa ;  and  in  the  second  part  he 
painted  the  holy  beauty  of  the  Man  of  Sorrows. 
It  was  a  soul  yielding  to  inspiration  and  pouring 
itself  forth  to  self-forgetful  abandon. 

Six  months  later,  a  school  teacher  told  him 
he  had  made  three  grammatical  errors  in  that 
sermon,  but  she  had  not  become  aware  of  them 
until  the  following  day. 

He  stopped  without  a  formal  conclusion.  The 
professor  of  homiletics  would  have  criticized,  and 
the  eyes  of  his  hearers  seemed  to  say:  “Go  on.” 
He  could  not  go  on.  He  had  painted  the  cross 
until  he  saw  it,  and  he  felt  like  worshiping.  He 
bowed  his  head  and  prayed. 


CHEAP 


NNOUNCEMENT  was  made  by  the  chair¬ 
man  that  the  state  convention  would  meet 
at  Charlottesburg,  and  that  it  would  be 
well  to  have  the  society  represented. 
Would  not  somebody  volunteer? 

“The  fare  is  fifteen  dollars  for  the  round  trip, 
and  the  total  expenses  will  amount  to  about 
twenty-five  dollars.”  He  spoke  as  one  having  au¬ 
thority. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  much  silent  thinking. 

“I  wouldn’t  mind  going,”  thought  Sam 
Browne.  “Must  be  great.  Fine  trip,  too.  But 
twenty-five  dollars  would  make  a  dent  in  my  bank 
account.”  According  to  the  expression  on  his  face 
he  would  have  qualified  for  the  position  of  certified 
expert  of  income-tax  intricacies.  An  expenditure 
of  twenty-five  dollars,  especially  for  altruistic  pur¬ 
poses,  was  a  serious  matter. 

[105] 


106 


CHEAP 


“I’d  love  to  go,”  mused  Flossie  Perkins. 
“Nice  to  meet  a  lot  of  nice  people.  But  I’d  rather 
have  that  mauve  dress  I  saw  in  Madame  Trudeau’s 
window  today.  The  one  with  the  Nile-green  trim¬ 
mings.”  She  looked  adoringly  up  at  the  ceiling, 
and  then  more  adoringly  at  the  mirror  in  her 
purse. 

“I  guess  it’s  up  to  me,”  the  president  said  to 
himself.  “But  business  first,  and  we’re  too  busy.” 

Then  Old  Faithful  rose. 

“Well,  if  nobody  else  goes,  I  guess  I’ll  go,”  she 
said  simply.  She  was  tall  and  strong.  Her 
friends  remarked  about  two  of  her  habits,  for  she 
was  mature  enough  to  have  a  few  mixed  habits. 
One  was  her  smile  that  would  come  unexpectedly 
and  endow  the  serious  cast  of  her  features  with 
a  beauty  that  was  distinctly  spiritual.  The  other 
was  a  way  she  had  of  brushing  her  dark  hair  from 
her  forehead.  It  stood  for  clearing  the  deck  and 
getting  ready  for  action. 

Her  decision  was  applauded.  The  members 
nodded  to  one  another,  as  though  saying,  “You 
might  know.” 

Old  Faithful  was  popular,  especially  with  the 
younger  set,  whom  she  had  often  helped  in  pre¬ 
paring  papers  and  other  work.  It  was  strange 
what  fun  a  person  could  have  doing  serious  work 
when  Old  Faithful  helped.  She  was  still  young. 


CHEAP 


107 


Friend  and  not-friend  would  have  resented  any 
intimation  of  her  being  an  old  maid.  In  fact, 
some  believed  she  would  always  remain  young. 

John  Raymond  asked  for  the  floor.  He  was 
a  recent  accession  to  the  society,  but  a  keen  ob¬ 
server  through  glasses  that  glistened  immacul¬ 
ately. 

“Mr.  Raymond  has  the  floor.” 

“Well,  I  just  want  to  say,  that  is,  I  just  want 
to  say,  that  I  think — of  course,  that’s  j  ust  my  idea, 
you  know — I  think  anyhow  that  we  ought  to  pay 
the  delegate’s  expenses,  at  least  her  fare.” 

There  was  a  pause  for  twenty-three  seconds, 
and  much  violent  thinking.  This  was  followed  by 
earnest  whispering,  frilled  with  giggles. 

Then  Sam  Browne  arose.  He  squared  his 
shoulder,  caressed  an  early  clearing  on  the  top 
of  his  head,  and  looked  for  a  moment  as  though 
he  might  release  a  Patrick  Henry  oration.  In  a 
most  unparliamentary  manner,  however,  he 
turned  on  the  nervous  Mr.  Raymond. 

“Are  you  going  to  furnish  the  money?”  he 
blurted. 

Mr.  Raymond  blushed. 

“Why,  no,”  he  stammered.  “I  thought,  that 
is,  I  thought,  we  might  take  the  money  out  of  the 
treasury;  or  else  it  seems  to  me,  anyhow  I  think 


108 


CHEAP 


so,  it  is  just  my  opinion,  we  might  chip  together 
out  of  our  own  pockets.’' 

It  was  evident  Mr.  Raymond  needed  two  feet 
to  stand  on.  He  tried  very  hard  to  stand  on  one 
foot  only,  first  one  and  then  the  other,  but  the  at¬ 
tempt  proved  a  complete  failure.  When  he  sat 
down  he  wiped  the  beads  of  moisture  from  his 
brow  with  Mrs.  Manning’s  veil  instead  of  his 
handkerchief,  which  did  not  add  to  his  popularity. 

The  meeting  resolved  itself  into  a  committee 
of  the  whole  without  consent  of  the  chairman.  The 
latter  turned  to  the  secretary  for  advice  but  on 
seeing  her  pretty  teeth  try  to  bite  the  pencil  in 
two,  while  her  eyes  studied  invisible  stars  and  her 
hair  curled  rebelliously,  he  forgot  about  the  meet¬ 
ing  for  a  moment ;  even  two  moments. 

Above  the  subdued  surf  of  animated  discus-: 
sion  could  be  heard  the  voice  of  Flossie  Perkins. 

“If  it  comes  to  having  the  expenses  paid,  I 
guess  there  are  others.” 

She  said  it  in  a  whisper  that  was  distinctly 
heard  by  the  cat  which  had  strayed  into  the  room 
through  the  window  and  now  blinked  at  the  meet¬ 
ing  from  the  sill.  When  she  heard  the  last  re¬ 
mark,  she  washed  herself  vigorously. 

At  last  order  was  restored,  partly  through  the 
efforts  of  the  chairman  who  had  “come  to”  and 
now  pounded  the  table  with  a  fist  that  was  used  to 


CHEAP 


109 


wielding  a  heavy  fountain-pen,  and  partly  by  the 
voice  of  Old  Faithful.  The  latter  part  was  four 
fifths. 

“I  move  to  lay  this  matter  on  the  table,”  she 
said.  She  cleared  her  forehead  for  a  few  imper¬ 
tinent  wisps,  and  her  eyes  looked  more  penetrating 
than  ever.  “Or  better,  since  there  was  no  motion, 
let  us  fire  it  under  the  table  and  forget  it.  I’m 
going  to  pay  my  own  expenses. 

“And  now,  while  we’re  talking  about  money, 
let  me  speak  to  you  of  the  Tenement  Fund.  We 
must  not  forget  it.  The  need  is  great.” 

She  talked  on,  and  they  listened.  Sam 
Browne  admired  her  with  eyes  and  purse.  Pres¬ 
ently  he  took  out  his  note-book  and  pen. 

When  Old  Faithful  had  finished,  he  rose  and 
asked  for  the  floor.  The  chairman  assured  him  of 
that  privilege,  realizing  the  futility  of  refusing, 
in  view  of  the  fact  that  Sam  took  possession  of  a 
considerable  portion  of  the  floor  wherever  he 
stood. 

Sam  did  not  merely  rise ;  he  rose  to  the  occa¬ 
sion. 

“There  was  no  motion  made  to  pay  the  dele¬ 
gate’s  expenses,”  he  began,  “and  for  that  reason 
we  cannot  well  do  anything  about  it ;  that’s  sure. 
But  I  don’t  think  we  ought  to  let  the  chance  go 
by  without  doing  something.  Not  only  say  nice 


110 


CHEAP 


things  outside,  but  do  something  right  here.  Yes, 
Mr.  Chairman,  do  something.”  (The  chairman 
nodded  vaguely.)  “And  therefore  I  move  to  adopt 
the  following  resolution : 

“We,  the  members  of  this  society,  convened 
for  a  regular  meeting,  on  this  twenty-fifth  day  of 
October,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1923,  do  hereby 
and  herewith  seriously  and  earnestly  express  our 
high  appreciation  of  the  noble,  unselfish,  self-de¬ 
nying,  and  splendid  services  rendered  this  society 
by  our  much-beloved  delegate  to  the  state  conven¬ 
tion,  and  we  wish  her  happy  and  glorious  hours 
and  days  on  the  trip  and  at  the  convention.” 

“Second  the  motion,”  trebled  and  bassed  a 
number  of  voices.  The  enthusiasm  was  unani¬ 
mous,  and  the  resolution  was  carried  without  a 
dissenting  vote. 

The  cat,  however,  yawned,  sang  a  sad  song  of 
one  note,  and  leaped  out  of  sight. 


MORE  TIME  FOR  HERSELF 


RS.  Sperry  sighed. 

“It  is  work,  work,  work,  from  morn 
to  night.  I  haven’t  a  moment  for  myself. 
Housework  certainly  is  slavery.  Why 
don’t  those  men  of  genius  think  of  some¬ 
thing  to  make  life  easier  for  us  ?  Here  the  minis¬ 
ter  tells  us  to  spend  at  least  a  half  hour  in  quiet 
communion  every  day.  But  how  will  I  get  in  the 
half  hour?  And  servants  are  expensive — when 
you  can  get  them.” 

That  evening  her  husband  announced  that  he 
would  have  electricity  installed,  and  would  make 
her  a  present  of  one  of  the  improved  electric 
sweepers. 

Well,  it  was  great,  and  Mrs.  Sperry  was  de¬ 
lighted.  It  was  such  a  labor  and  time-saving  in¬ 
vention.  Now  at  last  she  was  able  to  take  in  a 
matinee  or  two  a  week. 


[Ill] 


112 


MORE  TIME  FOR  HERSELF 


But  the  matinee  devoured  more  time  than 
just  the  performance.  There  was  the  dressing, 
and  the  hours  spent  on  the  way.  And  then  it  was 
absolutely  necessary,  once  in  a  while,  to  have  a 
confidential  chat  with  the  dressmaker. 

“Oh,  dear,”  she  sighed.  “I  wish  I  had  a  lit¬ 
tle  more  time  for  myself.  Just  to  be  able  and  sit 
still  and  come  to  myself.” 

One  morning  the  expressman  brought  a  new 
device,  with  the  compliments  of  Mr.  Sperry.  An 
electrical  dishwasher.  Not  of  the  old-fashioned 
kind  that  have  long  been  on  the  market.  Some¬ 
thing  altogether  new.  A  machine  that  would 
wash  and  dry  the  dishes.  All  the  human  hand 
had  to  do  was  to  put  the  dishes  into  the  receiver, 
fill  it  with  water,  cover  it  up,  and  turn  on  the 
current. 

Mrs.  Sperry  rejoiced.  She  had  no  difficulty 
in  persuading  her  husband  to  crown  his  kind 
benevolences  by  taking  the  dishes  out  of  the  ma¬ 
chine  and  stacking  them  away.  She  convinced 
him  that  baby  would  hold  him  in  higher  esteem 
for  being  so  good  to  mama. 

But  why  hurry? 

“Now  I  can  be  in  time  for  the  first  film  in 
the  movie.  Mrs.  Fudge  has  often  asked  me  to  go 
with  her.  Of  course,  I  have  been  there,  but  Mrs. 
Fudge  told  me  I  have  to  be  regular  to  get  the  real 


MORE  TIME  FOR  HERSELF 


113 


benefit.  She  says  the  movies  are  so  human.  They 
bring  the  real  life  close  to  us.” 

But  she  had  to  hurry,  poor  woman ! 

“Oh,  dear,”  she  sighed,  “this  life  is  killing. 
Not  a  moment  for  myself.  My  head  is  in  a  whirl. 
And  the  beautiful  pictures  so  stir  my  emotion.  I 
just  do  wish  I  had  a  little  more  time  just  to  come 
to  myself.” 

A  great  invention  stirred  the  household 
world  just  at  that  time.  Mrs.  Sperry  read  and 
gasped  delightedly. 

“Isn’t  that  great?”  she  exclaimed  to  her  hus¬ 
band,  handing  him  the  paper. 

He  read  with  increasing  interest.  It  was 
indeed  a  wonderful  thing.  A  machine  about  the 
size  of  an  oil-stove.  It  could  be  carried  from  room 
to  room.  It  looked  so  innocent,  but  it  was  filled 
with  chemicals  so  delicately  and  dynamically  ad¬ 
justed  that  when  connected  with  an  electric  cur¬ 
rent,  they  would  draw  unto  themselves  and  de¬ 
posit  into  a  refuse  pocket  every  particle  of  dirt 
in  the  room,  doing  the  work  of  sweeping  and  dust¬ 
ing.  “Easywork”  was  the  name  of  the  clever  de¬ 
vice.  The  house-wife  would  take  it  into  the  room, 
attach  the  wire,  turn  on  the  current,  and  then 
leave.  In  a  half  hour  the  room  would  be  im¬ 
maculate. 

It  was  a  marvel.  Of  course,  it  was  expensive, 


114 


MORE  TIME  FOR  HERSELF 


but  Sperry  loved  his  wife  dearly.  He  knew  it 
would  save  time  and  labor,  and  give  his  darling 
a  few  hours  a  day  more  for  herself. 

When  the  “Easywork”  arrived,  he  almost  re¬ 
gretted  being  present,  for  his  wife’s  gratitude  was 
oppressive. 

She  certainly  was  happy.  It  meant  so  much 
more  time  for  herself. 

And  she  joined  a  euchre  club. — 

Poor  Mrs.  Sperry! 

The  name,  of  course,  is  fictitious.  The  real 
name  is  humanity. 

With  every  labor,  and  time-saving  invention 
we  become  more  fretful  and  restless,  and  we  have 
less  and  less  time  for  the  one  thing  needful. 


THE  WISE  ONE 


HE  Wise  One  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  palm. 
Old  men  said  their  fathers  had  told  them 
that  the  tree  was  older  than  the  Wise 
One. 

"Did  you  see  Him?”  he  asked,  in  a 
voice  that  echoed  centuries. 

"Yes,  we  did,”  the  men  answered.  They 
were  tired.  Their  feet  and  sandals  were  dusty. 

"And  did  you  feel  the  power?” 

They  smiled ;  and  one  of  them,  a  young  man, 
laughed. 

"We  did  just  as  Martha  told  us  she  did,”  the 
spokesman  reported.  "Each  one  of  us  took  his 
turn.  We  waited  until  the  Prophet  was  sur¬ 
rounded  by  a  crowd,  we  came  up  from  behind,  we 
touched  the  hem  of  his  garment.  Just  as  she  told 
us.  But  we  felt  nothing  like  the  power  of  which 
she  speaks.  Benoni,  the  fool,  thought  he  felt 

[115] 


116 


THE  WISE  ONE 


something,  but  he  is  a  fool.  And  he  did  not  do  as 
we  told  him  to  do.  He  listened  to  the  Prophet's 
words  and  forgot  himself." 

The  Wise  One  was  silent. 

“We  were  scientific,"  the  spokesman  con¬ 
tinued.  “We  tabulated  our  impressions.  And  we 
have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Martha  did  not 
tell  the  truth.  If  she  felt  the  power,  why  did  not 
we?  We  did  just  as  she  told  us  she  had  done.” 

“But  how  was  she  cured?" 

The  spokesman  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
his  eyebrows  hinted  at  dark  powers. 

“Did  you  indeed  do  as  she  did?"  the  Wise  One 
asked  again,  after  a  pause. 

“Exactly  as  she  told  us.  We  waited  until  the 
people  thronged  about  him,  then  we  came  up  from 
behind,  and  we  touched  the  hem  of  his  garment.” 

The  voice  of  the  Wise  One  became  deeper, 
unearthly. 

“And  had  you  felt  the  need  of  him?"  he  asked. 

“No,"  the  spokesman  wavered.  “We  were 
making  a  scientific  investigation.”  He  coughed. 

The  Wise  One  dropped  his  eyes  and  sat  very 
still.  And  in  the  long  silence  that  followed,  one 
after  the  other  of  the  men  stole  away. 


THE  PALE  FAITH 


R.  Hiram  Meeke  was  a  devout  man.  He 
was  the  foremost  surgeon  of  Charlton. 
Nature  had  endowed  him  with  a  love  for 
the  mysteries  of  the  human  body  as  well 
as  with  a  keen  eye  and  a  steady  hand. 
But  he  was  interested  in  other  mysteries  also.  The 
tension  of  his  daily  task  was  often  relieved  by  in¬ 
dulging  in  the  devotions  of  the  mystics. 

He  was  a  man  of  faith.  God  would  make  all 
things  well,  he  was  sure.  People  loved  the  tall, 
spare  doctor.  His  white  hair  and  mustache  made 
him  almost  venerable,  especially  when  his  eyes 
shone  with  a  deep,  deep  light. 

One  evening,  after  office  hours,  a  committee 
waited  on  the  doctor.  It  was  a  committee  of 
three:  Rev.  Mr.  Beckett  of  the  Presbyterian 
Church,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Burns  of  the  Methodist 
Church,  and  Mr.  William  Atwood,  president  of 

[117] 


118 


THE  PALE  FAITH 


the  Atwood  and  Martin  Motor  Co.  The  Martin 
motors  were  famous. 

Dr.  Burns  acted  as  spokesman.  With  his 
ready  flow  of  words  he  urged  the  doctor  to  join 
them  in  a  crusade  against  the  vile  performance 
in  the  local  moving  picture  theatres. 

‘‘They  are  bad/’  the  reverend  gentleman  ges¬ 
ticulated.  “They  are  vicious  when  they  are  openly 
obscene,  and  they  are  insidiously  bad  when  they 
assume  a  sentimentally  good  appearance.  You 
know  it  is  true,  doctor.  And  something  has  to  be 
done,  unless  we  are  willing  to  forfeit  our  reputa¬ 
tion  for  a  high  standard  of  decency.” 

His  little,  pompous  figure  grew  two  inches 
while  he  spoke. 

Dr.  Meeke  smiled  a  beautiful  smile,  and  his 
eyes  feasted  on  distant  verdures. 

The  Presbyterian  minister  remained  seated. 
His  size  was  impressive  enough  even  in  a  chair. 
He  spoke  in  a  matter-of-fact  way.  His  statement 
was  strong  and  incontrovertible.  Something  had 
to  be  done. 

Some  people  called  Mr.  Beckett  dry.  He 
didn’t  have  much  gravy,  to  be  sure,  but  his  meat 
was  always  well  cooked. 

Mr.  Atwood  was  a  man  of  few  words.  In 
his  younger  days,  he  had  been  an  amateur  prize 
fighter,  billed  as  “Still  Bill.” 


THE  PALE  FAITH 


119 


“Better  join  us,”  he  said,  stiffening  his  jaw. 
“We  need  you.” 

Dr.  Meeke  came  to. 

“Do  you  know,”  he  said  mellowly,  “I  have 
learned  to  leave  all  such  things  to  the  Lord.” 

They  argued;  they  pleaded. 

“I  am  sure,”  he  ended  the  debate,  “that  if  the 
Lord  wants  the  ‘movies’  reformed,  He  will  find  a 
way.  I  am  willing  to  leave  it  to  Him.  If  people 
ask  me  for  my  opinion,  I  shall  give  it,  of  course ; 
but  otherwise  I  shall  leave  it  to  the  Lord.” 

The  men  were  disappointed,  but  not  discour¬ 
aged.  And  through  the  months  that  followed  they 
fought  hard.  They  fought  an  entrenched  and  de¬ 
termined  enemy.  But  they  won.  The  courts  de¬ 
cided  in  their  favor,  and  the  legislature  passed 
a  new  law  ordering  a  stricter  and  more  competent 
censorship. 

The  fighters  celebrated  in  a  quiet  way.  When 
they  returned  from  the  hotel,  where  they  had 
dined,  they  met  the  doctor. 

“Well,  doctor,  we  won,”  doctor  Burns  hailed 

him. 

The  doctor  smiled  benignly. 

“Wasn’t  I  right?”  he  said.  “I  told  you  the 
Lord  would  find  a  way  to  reform  the  ‘movies’  if 
He  wanted  to  do  so.” 

They  stared  at  him,  while  he  gazed  far  out 


120 


THE  PALE  FAITH 


to  where  abstraction  from  the  realities  of  life 
pales  into  nothing.  He  cranked  his  car  and  drove 
off. 

"Beautiful  faith,  after  all,”  Dr.  Burns  said, 
as  though  trying  to  make  himself  believe  it. 

"Beautiful?”  questioned  his  colleague.  "Yes, 
beautiful,  but  pale.” 

Mr.  Atwood  said  nothing,  but  in  his  heart  he 
rededicated  himself  to  the  faith  that  had  been  in¬ 
carnadined  through  the  service  and  sacrifice  of  the 
last  months. 


THE  BOASTERS 


OMEBODY  had  thrown  the  old  parasol 
into  a  corner  of  the  beach,  close  to  the 
pier,  where,  together  with  boards  and 
posts,  between  which  it  was  wedged,  it 
formed  a  perfect  shelter  from  the  sun. 
The  spot  it  covered  was  damp  and  moldy  and 
wormy. 

Thither  stole  Worry,  the  old  hag.  She  loved 
the  spot  for  its  seclusion,  and  a  chat  with  the  para¬ 
sol  was  a  treat,  though  they  often  quarreled.  She 
taunted  it  with  the  faded  advertisements  that 
were  still  legible  on  its  sides,  though  the  gaudy 
colors  had  faded;  and  the  parasol  sneered  at  the 
deep  furrows  in  Worry’s  face.  All  this,  while 
men  and  women  and  children  were  gamboling  in 
the  surf. 

“How  large  is  the  sun?”  the  parasol  asked. 

“Really,  I  don’t  know,”  Worry  answered,  cau- 

[121] 


122 


THE  BOASTERS 


tiously,  for  she  knew  that  it  was  designing.  “I 
wonder  if  anybody  really  knows.” 

“Is  it  larger  than  the  earth?” 

“Oh,  much  larger.  I  heard  a  man  say  that 
it  was  more  than  two  thousand  times  as  large.” 

“More  than  two  thousand  times  as  large,”  it 
repeated.  “Think  of  how  powerful  it  must  be. 
And  yet — ” 

Was  it  the  breeze  from  the  ocean  or  pride 
that  made  the  sides  swell? 

“And  yet  what?”  Worry  sneered. 

“And  yet  I  keep  the  sun  away.  That  pow¬ 
erful  being  has  not  touched  this  spot  for  months. 
I  kept  it  away.” 

Worry  was  silent.  Of  course  she  could  not 
gainsay  the  claim  of  the  parasol,  and  it  was  not 
envy  that  silenced  her.  Rather,  was  she  reminded 
of  her  own  power. 

“I  think  I  am  more  powerful  than  you,”  she 
contended. 

The  parasol  leered  at  her  questioningly. 

“Yes,  I  am,”  Worry  affirmed.  “For  I  can 
keep  away  something  more  powerful  than  the 
sun.” 

“What?” 

“All  about  us  is  the  love  of  God.  It  is  just 
eager  to  get  into  human  hearts  and  bless  them. 
There  is  no  sorrow  for  which  the  love  of  God  has 


THE  BOASTERS 


123 


not  comfort  and  healing.  And  yet  I  can  keep  it 
away.” 

“You?  Do  you  know  you  sometimes  seem 
very  little?” 

“Yes.  But  a  little  worry  can  keep  the  peace 
of  God  away.  Just  as  a  little  thing  like  you  can 
keep  the  sun  away.  Ah,  the  tales  I  could  tell  you. 
I  am  very  ,very  old,  you  know.  All  over  the  world, 
and  throughout  more  centuries  than  history 
knows  I  have  done  my  work.  Little  Worry!  But 
it  robbed  men  and  women  of  peace.” 

“Why  did  they  not  chase  you  away?” 

“They  invited  me  when  their  faith  was 
weak,  and  the  longer  I  stayed  the  stronger  I  got.” 

The  sky  had  grown  dark,  and  in  the  storm  an 
unusually  high  wave  washed  the  parasol  from  its 
mooring.  Worry  fled ;  but  she  will  keep  on  boast¬ 
ing  so  long  as  faith  is  small. 


THE  CHURCH 


HE  keeper  of  the  sacred  fire  sat  by  the 
altar  on  the  mountain,  and  mused.  He 
was  sad. 

Day  and  night  the  torch  bearers 
came  to  the  altar  to  light  the  torches  with 
which  to  kindle  the  fires  that  warmed  the  homes 
of  the  valley  and  illumined  the  night. 

From  his  aerie  he  watched  them  and  saw 
they  were  selfish  and  careless.  They  thought 
more  of  the  pretty  flambeaux  in  their  hands  than 
the  cheer  they  could  bring  to  others. 

The  keeper  was  sad.  Oh,  that  he  might  go 
down  to  warm  and  brighten  the  valley.  But  the 
fire,  the  sacred  fire!  Who  would  guard  it?  He 
dare  not  let  it  die. 

One  afternoon,  he  noticed  gross  neglect,  for 
his  eye  was  keen.  Fires  were  left  unkindled.  He 

[124] 


THE  CHURCH 


125 


knew  that  men  would  grope  in  the  dark  and  stum¬ 
ble  in  the  night. 

Ablaze  with  zeal,  he  seized  a  torch,  tipped  it 
with  the  holy  flame,  and  hurried  down  the  narrow 
path.  He  fought  the  offenders,  and  kindled  the 
fires. 

Homeward,  the  hills  echoed  his  praises.  He 
was  proud  as  he  reached  the  height  and  saw  the 
fires  below. 

But  as  he  turned  to  the  altar,  his  heart  was 
chilled. 

Alas,  the  sacred  fire  had  died. 


THE  SPIRITUAL  MAN 


H,  yes,  come  right  in. 

You  say  you’re  from  the  Fairview 
church.  I  know  that  church.  It’s  up  on 
the  ridge.  Get  a  fine  view  from  up  there. 
Fairview  is  right.  Hear  you  have  a  good 
preacher  up  there,  too.  I  hear  people  talking 
about  your  church. 

I  join  your  church?  Weil,  no,  I’m  not  that 
kind  of  a  man.  You  see  I  believe  in  a  spiritual 
religion.  I  am  a  spiritually  minded  man.  I  have 
no  use  for  organizations.  My  soul  feeds  on  a  re¬ 
ligion  that  is  above  all  institutions  and  organiza¬ 
tions.  No  doubt,  others  need  these  material  helps, 
but  I  am  above  them;  I  would  be  hampered  by 
them.  You  are  doing  good  work,  I  know,  and  we 
are  one  in  the  spirit,  but  I  believe  in  a  spiritual 
religion. 


[126] 


THE  SPIRITUAL  MAN 


127 


You  are  glad  to  meet  a  spiritually  minded 
man?  Thank  you. 

Why  I  don’t  come  to  church,  even  though  I 
don’t  join?  Well,  it’s  for  the  same  reason.  You 
see,  the  highest,  the  spiritual  religion,  ought  to 
be  above  all  songs  and  sermons.  Spirit  commun¬ 
ing  with  spirit.  Others,  of  course,  need  the  out¬ 
ward  helps,  some  even  need  pictures  and  candles, 
but  I — I  am  a  spiritually  minded  man. 

Come  for  the  sake  of  others?  Well,  I  don’t 
know.  I  am  afraid  I’d  have  to  sacrifice  too  much. 
It’s  all  right  to  stoop  down  to  raise  others,  but 
when  one  is  used  to  the  more  rarified  atmos¬ 
phere — 

What’s  that?  Contribute  to  the  cause?  Why, 
my  dear,  how  can  you  speak  of  such  coarse  things 
as  gold  and  silver  after  I  have  explained  that  I  am 
a  spiritually  minded  man.  Believe  me,  there  is 
too  much  money  and  machinery  in  the  church 
now.  Too  much  reliance  upon  the  market.  It  is 
sordid. 

“But—1 ” 

Ah,  there  goes  the  dinner  bell.  You’ll  have 
to  excuse  me.  I  am  as  hungry  as  a  bear ;  and  be¬ 
sides  the  dinner  bell  is  orders,  and  we  must  obey 
orders,  you  know.  Good-bye.  My  best  wishes. 


THE  SMILE 


N  the  roof  of  his  house  in  Anathoth,  the 
old  priest  lounged  with  the  air  of  one 
who  was  acquainted  with  every  finesse  of 
comfort.  His  couch  was  soft,  and  the 
draperies  of  the  canopy  were  rich.  His 
shrewd  face  was  a  study  in  smiles,  befitting  the 
corpulency  of  his  body.  Occasionally  he  reached 
for  the  silver  cup,  and  sipped  the  palm  wine  like 
an  epicurean.  He  was  an  influential  man. 

Before  him  stood  Jeremiah,  the  young 
prophet. 

He  did  not  mind  the  rays  of  the  sun,  hot  even 
in  the  late  afternoon.  Plain  was  his  garb,  and 
plain  the  hood,  shading  lean  features,  set  with 
luminous  eyes.  After  a  glance,  a  loving  glance, 
at  the  famous  hills  of  Benjamin,  rising  in  a  half 
circle  to  the  west  and  northwest,  he  turned  to  his 
host. 

The  priest  sipped  and  smiled.  His  voice  was 
musical. 


[128] 


THE  SMILE 


129 


"I  asked  you  to  come  to  me,”  he  began,  “be¬ 
cause  I  have  something  to  tell  you  that  is  for  your 
own  good.  You  are  the  son  of  a  priest,  and  I 
want  to  do  all  I  can  for  you.” 

The  prophet  tried  to  smile  in  return,  but  it 
was  hard. 

“I  want  to  talk  to  you  like  a  father,”  the 
priest  went  on.  “I  want  to  tell  you  that  you  take 
things  too  seriously.  You  look  like  a  man  of  sor¬ 
rows  and  acquainted  with  grief,  full  of  lamenta¬ 
tions.  You  must  learn  to  look  at  the  bright  side 
of  things.  Don’t  let  the  corners  of  your  mouth 
sag.  Learn  to  smile,  smile,  smile.  Look  at  me.” 

He  raised  the  cup,  and  there  was  a  pause. 

“You  know  I  am  a  man  of  affairs  and  respon¬ 
sibilities,  and  the  burdens  of  my  office  are  heavy. 
But  I  have  learned  to  take  things  as  they  come. 
I  take  them  with  a  smile.” 

The  young  man  was  about  to  speak,  but  the 
priest  silenced  him  with  a  languid  wave  of  the 
hand  and  a  deprecating  smile. 

“Life  is  sweet,”  he  continued.  “Why  not  en¬ 
joy  it?  Judah  is  rich  and  prosperous.  There  is 
so  much  to  be  proud  of,  and  to  enjoy.  Of  course, 
there  are  poor,  but  there  will  always  be  poor.” 

His  fingers  and  his  eyes  fondled  the  cup. 

The  prophet  was  silent.  He  was  struggling 
with  a  surge  of  sadness.  How  could  he  smile! 


130 


THE  SMILE 


How  could  this  priest  before  him  smile!  A  film 
gathered  over  his  eyes,  illumined  by  a  fire  within. 
The  surge  found  expression. 

“The  stork  in  the  heaven  knoweth  her  ap¬ 
pointed  times ;  and  the  turtle  dove  and  the  crane 
and  the  swallow  observe  the  time  of  their  coming ; 
but  my  people  know  not  the  judgment  of  the 
Lord.” 

The  priest  raised  his  hands.  There  was  an 
attempt  at  indignation,  but  his  features  hardly 
lost  their  bland  composure. 

“Are  you  blind?”  he  expostulated.  “Do  you 
not  rejoice  in  the  sweeping  reformation  of  our 
good  king  Josiah?  The  high  places  have  been 
leveled  to  the  ground ;  the  Asherahs  have  been  de¬ 
stroyed  ;  and  the  altars  of  Baal  broken  down ;  and 
the  vestments  of  idoltary  have  been  burned  in  the 
valley  of  the  Kedron.  The  black-robed  priests  of 
Baal  have  made  way  for  the  white-robed  priests 
of  Jehovah.  The  reformation  has  reached  even 
Ephraim  and  Manasseh,  for  Assyria  is  weak.  Je¬ 
hovah  be  praised.” 

The  film  in  the  eye  of  the  prophet  glowed  as 
he  answered.  Was  it  he  that  spoke  or  another? 

“Will  ye  steal,  murder,  commit  adultery,  per¬ 
jure  yourselves,  and  then  come  into  my  presence 
into  this  house  which  is  called  after  my  name?” 

The  priest  lowered  his  voice. 


THE  SMILE 


131 


“If  you  are  not  reasonable,  you  will  be  dis¬ 
liked.  Already  you  have  lost  favor,  and  the  priests 
are  beginning  to  hate  you.  We  want  to  keep 
things  smooth,  and  your  ravings  are  annoying. 
You  go  too  far.  You  have  prophesied  the  destruc¬ 
tion  of  Jerusalem  and  the  temple.  That  makes 
me  smile.  The  temple!  The  home  of  Jehovah! 
Impossible!  Certainly  not  while  Josiah  reigns; 
and  he  is  young.  And  if  after  us — ” 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  smiled,  and  re¬ 
freshed  himself. 

Long  had  the  emotions  of  the  prophet  been 
repressed.  Now  they  overwhelmed  him.  Like 
one  possessed  he  poured  out  his  predictions. 

“I  tremble  for  sorrow.  The  walls  of  my  heart 
will  break.  The  enemy  comes  up  in  dense,  huge 
masses,  like  clouds,  his  chariots  rush  on  like  a 
whirlwind,  his  horses  are  swifter  than  eagles  in 
their  flight.  Woe  to  us,  we  are  destroyed.” 

The  flow  of  fervid  eloquence  did  not  cease 
until  the  passion  had  been  spent.  The  sun  was 
setting,  and  the  hills  were  roseate,  but  on  the  face 
of  the  prophet  perspiration  mingled  with  tears. 
At  last  he  stood  as  one  waiting  for  a  reply  from 
the  couch.  When  no  answer  came,  he  bent  over 
to  look.  Alas,  the  priest  was  fast  asleep,  an  in¬ 
fantile  smile  on  his  chubby  face. 


MR.  ALBERG'S  WORRY 


head. 


R.  Alberg  sank  into  his  Morris  chair  and 
furrowed  his  brow ;  not  with  the  furrows 
of  concentration,  up  and  down  alongside 
of  the  root  of  the  nose,  but  the  furrows 
of  perplexity,  lengthwise  across  the  fore- 
He  had  reason  to  be  perplexed.  His  little 


eyes  shifted  from  floor  to  ceiling  in  search  of  a 
fulcrum.  It  was  not  business  that  worried  him. 
No,  no;  his  collars  and  shirts  were  always  im¬ 
maculate,  and  he  was  as  punctual  as  the  usual 
laundryman.  Whenever  he  did  have  to  disap¬ 
point  a  customer,  his  face  would  take  on  so  doleful 
an  expression  that  the  accompanying  gesture  w’as 
entirely  superfluous.  Besides,  his  sigh  seemed  to 
issue  from  a  cavern  that  fed  two  hundred  pounds 
of  mortal  flesh.  He  was  forgiven,  and  the  plain¬ 
tiff  bowed  apologetically. 

Now,  Mr.  Alberg’s  worries  were  of  political 
nature.  Election  was  near  and  he  did  not  know 
for  whom  to  vote.  Four  candidates  were  in  the 
field  for  the  mayoralty,  and  it  was  hard  for  him 
to  decide.  Not  that  his  case  was  that  of  most 
people  who  were  perplexed  because  they  read  the 

[132] 


MR.  ALBERTS  WORRY 


133 


newspapers.  Mr.  Alberg  read  nothing  but  the 
real  estate  news.  Some  day  he  hoped  to  have 
money  enough  to  make  the  great  venture.  His 
wife  would  smile  at  him,  but  he  did  not  see  her 
benevolent  grimace;  for  he  usually  had  trouble 
keeping  his  glasses  on  his  nose.  Once  indeed  he 
had  read  about  the  election.  That  was  in  a  scrap 
of  a  newspaper  in  which  a  customer  had  wrapped 
his  soiled  collars.  But  as  it  was  during  working 
hours  he  did  not  get  very  far,  for  his  wife  urged 
him  on  in  so  gentle  a  tone  of  voice  that  the  little 
fox  terrier  lowered  his  tail  and  hunted  a  corner 
in  the  show-window  behind  the  artificial  palm 
whose  fronds  needed  a  dusting. 

He  was  worried  because  interests  affecting 
his  vote  seemed  to  clash. 

“Now,  there’s  Deems,  the  Republican  candi¬ 
date.  I  ought  to  vote  for  him.  He’s  a  member 
of  my  lodge.  It  really  won’t  do  to  go  against 
him.  Lodge  members  ought  to  stick  together,  and 
he  treated  us  fine  at  the  last  meeting.  And  he 
sure  does  look  elegant  in  his  full  regalia. 

“But  then  there’s  Conner,  the  Democrat.  I 
wouldn’t  want  him  to  know  that  I  didn’t  vote  for 
him.  He’s  a  member  of  my  church.  I  ought  to 
vote  for  him.  Church  people  ought  to  do  some¬ 
thing  for  each  other.  Of  course,  I  don’t  go  to 
church  very  often,  and  Conner  don’t  either;  but 


134 


MR.  ALBERTS  WORRY 


he  gave  us  fifty  dollars  for  our  Fair  last  Novem¬ 
ber,  and  he  put  a  big  'Vote  for  Me’  in  our  concert 
program.  He’s  a  good  fellow,  too.  None  of  these 
narrow  fanatics.  My,  how  he  shakes  hands  with 
us  fellows  when  he  comes  around.  He’s  all  right.” 

The  little  eyes  blinked.  They  looked  at  the 
picture  of  Abraham  Lincoln  on  the  old  starch  cal¬ 
endar.  Was  the  figure  of  the  martyr  president 
growing?  The  eyes  blinked  again.  No;  it  was 
the  same  old  picture. 

"Then  there  is  Jack  Brace  on  the  Fusion 
ticket.  He’s  my  wife’s  cousin’s  gentleman  friend. 
They’re  not  engaged  yet,  but  I  guess  they  will  be. 
I  can’t  slight  him.  My  wife  thinks  he’s  a  fine? 
man,  and  if  I  don’t  vote  for  him — well,  I  may 
have  to  hunt  another  boarding  house.  I  guess 
he’s  a  fine  man  at  that,  and  it  would  be  fine  to 
have  the  mayor  of  the  town  in  the  family.  One 
never  can  tell.  I  may  get  something  out  of  that 
myself.” 

That  picture  of  Honest  Abe  was  growing 
after  all.  Taller  every  minute.  Looked  as  though 
he  might  step  out  of  the  frame  any  moment.  No! 
It  was  just  an  illusion.  Yes!  He  was  getting 
taller,  and  looking  right  at  Mr.  Alberg.  No !  Yes ! 
No!  Yes! 

Well,  anyhow,  there  was  Har court,  who  was 
running  independently.  He  used  to  be  a  neighbor 


MR.  ALBERG’S  WORRY 


135 


of  the  Albergs  on  Chestnut  Hill.  And  a  good 
neighbor,  too.  There  was  no  spite  fence  between 
the  Harcourts  and  the  Albergs.  And  Harcourt 
had  sent  him  a  nice  letter  only  the  other  day  ask¬ 
ing  his  support  at  the  polls.  And  when  they  met, 
Alberg  had  promised  in  a  vague  sort  of  a  way. 
Not  a  binding  promise,  to  be  sure.  It  was  this 
way.  Harcourt  was  overjoyed  to  see  Alberg,  and 
called  him  “my  dear  old  neighbor,”  and  intro¬ 
duced  him  as  “one  of  the  best  men  in  town”  to 
a  man  who  was  with  Harcourt  and  who  looked 
like  a  governor.  And  when  Harcourt  took  Alberg 
aside  and  gave  him  a  cigar  and  asked  for  his  vote, 
even  hinting  that  he  would  surely  remember  his 
old  friends  and  neighbors,  Alberg  had  answered, 
“Fll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you.”  And  they  had 
shaken  hands  so  cordially  that  Alberg  still  felt 
the  warmth  of  it.  He  didn’t  see  how  he  could  go 
back  on  an  old  friend  like  that. 

What  was  that?  Abraham  Lincoln,  six  feet 
four  inches  tall,  leaving  the  frame  of  the  calendar. 
With  slow  stride  he  steps  over  to  where  the  laun- 
dryman  is  sitting.  He  stands  before  him  with 
searching,  melancholy  eyes.  Alberg  feels  uncom¬ 
fortable,  aware  of  being  collarless.  But,  no,  that 
is  not  what  the  great  Emancipator  is  gazing  at. 

The  voice  is  a  blending  of  tenderness  and 
earnestness. 


136 


MR.  ALBERG’S  WORRY 


“Why  not  do  right?”  the  great  spirit  pleads. 
“The  simple  right.  Forget  yourself.  Vote  for 
the  man  who,  in  your  honest  opinion,  will  serve  the 
cause  best.  With  malice  toward  none,  with  char¬ 
ity  for  all;  with  firmness  in  the  right,  as  God 
gives  us  to  see  the  right.” 

Far,  far  away,  the  sound  of  a  bell,  as  though 
on  a  ship  sailing  the  infinite  sea.  Now  again,  but 
much  nearer.  Again  and  again.  As  Mr.  Alberg 
awakes,  he  hears  three  more  strokes  of  the  clock. 
He  rubs  his  eyes  vigorously,  also  his  nose,  and 
comes  to.  Yes,  yes.  He  is  still  in  the  old  room, 
and  Abraham  Lincoln  is  still  in  the  frame.  But 
it  is  no  longer  the  same  room.  He  has  had  his 
vision.  The  simple  right,  regardless  of  social  con¬ 
siderations  and  personal  advantages!  He  looks 
at  the  candidates  from  a  different  point  of  view. 
He  has  made  up  his  mind  to  vote  right. 

From  the  kitchen  comes  a  voice,  musical  but 
masterful. 

“John,  did  you  register  today?  You  know, 
this  is  the  last  day.” 

He  jerks  up  with  an  exclamation  that  is  com¬ 
plimentary  neither  to  himself  nor  his  wife  nor 
any  one  else.  He  has  indeed  forgotten  to  regis¬ 
ter.  He  has  been  too  busy  thinking  of  possible 
advantages  for  himself. 


COVERING  GROUND 


VERETT  Leslie  Rushgait  was  a  devout 
man,  after  his  own  fashion ;  and,  as  this 
is  the  country  of  religious  freedom,  no¬ 
body  interfered  with  him.  His  com¬ 
panions  in  the  office,  to  be  sure  with  com¬ 
placent  conspiracy,  induced  him  every  Monday 
morning  to  relate  his  Sunday  adventures,  and  his 
wife  regarded  him  with  a  puzzling  smile  as  he 
told  his  story  with  glowing  eyes.  He  certainly 
“could  cover  ground  and  make  time.” 

He  rose  early  on  this  particular  Sunday  morn¬ 
ing.  He  knew  it  would  be  a  busy  day.  After 
hasty  ablutions  and  hurried  attention  to  Sunday 
attire  he  bolted  his  breakfast  in  spite  of  Mrs, 
Rushgait’s  protests,  and  prepared  to  start  off  on 
his  trip. 

“Why,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?”  he  an¬ 
swered  his  wife.  “I’m  going  to  hear  an  address 

[137] 


138 


COVERING  GROUND 


by  Dr.  Samuel  Isaacs,  a  converted  rabbi.  He's 
going  to  speak  on  ‘The  World  War  in  the  Light 
of  Canticles.'  He's  great,  I  tell  you;  I  wish  you 
could  come.  Why,  he's  the  same  man  I  told  you 
about  a  month  ago.  Don't  you  remember?  I 
heard  him  speak  on  the  prophecies  of  the  witch 
of  Endor  at  that  time.  Something  occult,  he 
called  it.  I  think  that's  what  it  was.  Maybe  I'm 
mistaken.  Maybe  it  was  that  Syrian  I  heard  in 
the  afternoon  of  the  same  day.  I  tell  you  Dr. 
Isaacs  is  great.  But  I'll  have  to  hurry.  He  ad¬ 
dresses  the  Higher-up  Bible  Class  in  the  Bronx 
at  nine  o'clock." 

He  did  hurry.  Elevated  to  Park  Row,  and 
subway  to  the  Bronx.  How  he  chafed  at  delays ! 
How  he  condemned  Sunday  amusements  because 
of  the  crowded  cars  and  platforms! 

He  got  out  at  One-hundred-and-forty-ninth 
Street.  After  making  sure  of  the  direction  he 
struck  out  vigorously,  and  soon  reached  the 
church.  The  lecture  certainly  reflected  credita¬ 
bly  on  the  resourcefulness  of  the  rabbi,  though 
much  of  the  time  was  taken  up  with  the  pathetic 
story  of  his  conversion. 

Rushgait  thought  it  was  fine.  But  he  had 
no  time  to  shake  the  speaker's  hand,  for  the  morn¬ 
ing  service  in  his  own  church  would  begin  at 
eleven.  He  hardly  expected  to  be  there  on  time. 


COVERING  GROUND 


139 


Nor  was  he.  While  the  congregation  was  bowed 
in  prayer,  he  stood  in  the  vestibule  and  told  the 
chief  usher  about  Canticles  and  his  plans  for  the 
afternoon.  The  sermon  was  on  the  loaves  and 
fishes ;  and,  as  the  beneficiaries  of  the  miracle  had 
tried  to  make  the  Master  king,  Mr.  Rushgait  was 
able  to  find  some  connection  between  the  loaves 
and  fishes  and  Canticles. 

Dinner  was  a  hasty  affair.  Indeed,  a  slight 
frown  marked  the  face  of  the  head  of  the  house¬ 
hold,  for  Mrs.  Rushgait  was  not  quite  ready  with 
the  meal  when  he  arrived.  However,  he  controlled 
himself  and  spiced  the  conversation  with  a  few 
references  to  great  speakers  he  had  heard,  all  of 
which  was  listened  to  patiently  by  his  wife  and 
rapturously  by  his  daughter,  a  little  girl  of  ten 
years. 

“Won't  you  go  to  Sunday  school  with  me  this 
afternoon?"  the  little  one  asked.  “Some  of  the 
teachers  are  sick,  I  know,  and  you  could  help." 

“Is  that  so?"  He  looked  up,  always  reluctant 
to  refuse  her.  “Well,  maybe  1  will.  But  I'll  have 
to  leave  early,  I  want  to  hear  Dr.  Burns  in  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Temple  this  afternoon.  That  may 
be  the  last  chance  I'll  ever  have.  They  say  he's 
going  back  to  Scotland  next  week.  I  couldn't  af¬ 
ford  to  miss  that,  you  know." 

He  did  not  stay  longer  in  Sunday  school  than 


140 


COVERING  GROUND 


absolutely  necessary,  but  he  made  his  presence 
felt,  in  fact,  so  much  so  that  the  teachers  near  him 
complained  they  could  do  nothing  with  their 
classes.  The  lesson  was  on  the  parable  of  the 
Good  Samaritan.  Mr.  Rushgait  gave  rein  to  his 
imagination  as  he  spoke  of  the  poor  victim;  he 
held  forth  vehemently  against  the  priest;  and 
after  he  was  through  with  the  Levite  he  found 
he  had  no  time  left  for  the  Good  Samaritan. 

He  excused  himself,  and  ran  for  the  elevated. 
Arriving  at  the  Bridge,  he  stumbled  down  to  the 
subway  and  manfully  checked  a  Boanergian  out¬ 
burst  when  he  just  missed  the  train.  He  was  late, 
of  course,  for  the  service  in  the  Temple,  and  he 
had  to  stand  in  a  line  more  than  a  block  long.  By 
and  by  he  was  admitted,  and  even  found  a  seat. 
The  quartette  finished,  and  Dr.  Burns  began  to 
preach.  It  was  a  sermon  on  the  prayer  vigils  of 
Christ.  The  great  divine  urged  the  people  to  take 
time  for  the  quiet  hour. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  impassionate  appeal 
Mr.  Rushgait  grew  fidgety,  and  he  looked  at  his 
watch.  It  was  getting  late,  and  he  was  bound  to 
hear  Dr.  Boneau  at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in  Brooklyn. 
He  always  got  so  much  out  of  Dr.  Boneau’s  ad¬ 
dresses.  So,  bowing  an  excuse  to  the  lady  sitting 
at  his  side,  and  kicking  over  the  gentleman's  cane 
next  to  her,  he  passed  out  as  quietly  as  he  was  able 


COVERING  GROUND 


141 


to  do  in  his  hurry.  This  time  it  was  the  subway 
straight  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  and  he  was  in  time  to 
hear  the  last  part  of  the  address,  including  the 
peroration  and  the  applause.  He  was  thankful 
for  having  heard  even  that.  It  was,  of  course,  on 
the  League  of  Nations ;  and  the  beauty  of  the  ad¬ 
dress  was  that,  while  the  speaker  was  emphatic 
on  all  sides  of  the  question,  he  really  did  not  com¬ 
mit  himself.  There  was  nothing  like  an  attempt 
to  introduce  politics  into  a  Sunday  afternoon  ad¬ 
dress. 

Well,  Rushgait  was  late  for  supper,  although 
he  was  out  of  breath.  At  first  his  wife  adminis¬ 
tered  a  gentle  reproof,  but  on  seeing  his  spent 
condition  she  asked  him  how  it  all  was. 

“Fine,”  he  answered.  And  that  was  about 
all  he  could  say. 

He  had  promised  his  wife  to  go  to  church 
with  her  in  the  evening  and  the  time  was  not  far 
off.  So  they  went,  and  the  little  girl  was  happy 
to  have  her  father.  Rushgait  did  not  hear  the 
entire  discourse,  for  his  head  was  drowsy;  but, 
when  the  minister  quoted  a  verse  from  Canticles, 
his  mind  began  to  review  the  good  things  of  the 
last  twelve  hours,  and  so  he  thought  the  sermon 
a  fitting  close  of  a  perfect  day. 

That  night  he  dreamt.  He  saw  the  Shulamite, 
the  king,  the  lad  with  the  loaves,  and  the  Good 


142 


COVERING  GROUND 


Samaritan  rushing  along  in  apparently  aimless 
haste  until  they  heard  a  voice  saying,  “Be  still, 
and  know  that  I  am  God.” 

“What  kind  of  a  Sunday  did  you  have  yester¬ 
day?”  he  asked  his  wife  the  next  morning. 

“I  spent  an  afternoon  in  quiet  communion,” 
she  answered.  “It  was  beautiful,  but  I  missed 
you.” 


DATE  DUE 


f  'tti 

% 

GAYLORD 

PRINTED  IN  U  S  A. 

